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H.  W.  LONGFELLOW'S  WORKS. 


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POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 


HENBY  WADSWOBTH  LONGFELLOW. 


HOUSEHOLD  EDITION. 


BOSTON: 

HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 
EtoetatUe  JDrtBB,  CDambriUcre. 
x88o. 


Copyright,  1848, 1849,  1851,  1855, 1858, 1863, 1865, 1866, 1867,  1868, 1869, 1871, 
1872, 1873,  1874, 1875, 1876,  1877,  and  1878, 

By  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 
PRINTED  BY  H.  0.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS 


Voices  of  the  Night. 

Prelude 

Hymn  to  the  Night  . • 

- I A Psalm  of  Life  . . . 

The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers  . 

The  Light  of  Stars 

Footsteps  of  Angels  .... 

Flowers 

The  Beleaguered  City  .... 
Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year  . 

Earlier  Poems. 

An  April  Day 

Autumn 

Woods  in  Winter 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem 
Sunrise  on  the  Hills  .... 

The  Spirit  of  Poetry 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink  .... 

Translations. 

Coplas  de  Manrique 

The  Good  Shepherd  .... 

To-morrow 

The  Native  Land 

The  Image  of  God 

The  Brook 

The  Celestial  Pilot 

The  Terrestrial  Paradise 

Beatrice 

Spring 

The  Child  Asleep 

The  Grave 

King  Christian 

The  Happiest  Land  .... 

The  Wave 

The  Dead 

The  Bird  and  the  Ship  .... 
Whither?  .... 

Beware ! 

Song  of  the  Bell 


Page 

. 1 

2 

. 2 

3 

. 3 

4 

. 4 

5 

. 5 

6 

. 7 

7 

. 8 

8 

. 9 

10 

. 11 

16 

. 16 

17 

. 17 

17 

. 17 

18 

. 19 

19 

. 20 

20 

. 21 

21 

. 22 

22 

. 22 

22 

. 23 

23 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


The  Castle  by  the  Sea  .... 

The  Black  Knight  ...... 

Song  of  the  Silent  Land  .... 

L'Envoi  . 

Ballads  and  other  Poems. 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor  .... 
'“*'*'*  The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus  .... 
The  Luck  of  Edenhall  .... 

The  Elected  Knight 

The  Children  of  the  Lord’s  Supper 
Miscellaneous. 

' The  Village  Blacksmith  . 

Endymion 

The  two  Locks  of  Hair 

It  is  not  always  May 

The  Rainy  Day 

God’s-Acre 

To  the  River  Charles 

Blind  Bartimeus 

The  Goblet  of  Life 

Maidenhood 

■ Excelsior 

Poems  on  Slavery. 

To  William  E.  Channing  .... 

The  Slave’s  Dream 

The  Good  Part,  that  shall  not  be  taken  away 
The  Slave  in  the  Dismal  Swamp  . 

The  Slave  singing  at  Midnight  . 

The  Witnesses 

The  Quadroon  Girl 

The  Warning 

The  Spanish  Student  . . . . 

yn  ' — ov  Ww*’ 

Th^  Belfry  of  Bruges  and  other  Poems. 

Carillon 

The  Belfry  of  Bruges 

Miscellaneous. 

A Gleam  of  Sunshine 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield  . • 

Nuremberg 

The  Norman  Baron 

Rain  in  Summer 

To  a Child  ....... 

The  Occultation  of  Orion  .... 

The  Bridge 

To  the  Driving  Cloud 

Songs. 

\ \ 


23 

24 

24 

25 

25 

27 

28 

29  * 

29 

36 

36 

37 

37 

37 

37 

38 

38 

39 

39 

40 

41 

41 

42 

42 

42 

43 

43 

44 

44 

76 

77 

78 

78 

79 

80 

81 

82 

84 

85 

85 


Seaweed 
The  Day  is  done 


86 

87 


CONTENTS, 


V 


Afternoon  in  February 8' 

To  an  Old  Danish  Song-Book 88 

Walter  von  der  Vogelweid 88 

Drinking  Song ®9 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs  . . — 89 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song  . . 99 

Sonnets. 

The  Evening  Star 91 

Autumn 91 

Dante 91 

Translations. 

The  Hemlock  Tree 92 

Annie  of  Tharaw 92 

The  Statue  over  the  Cathedral  Door 98 

The  Legend  of  the  Crossbill 98 

The  Sea  hath  its  Pearls 98 

Poetic  Aphorisms 98 

Curfew 94 

Evangeline.  A Tale  of  Acadie 95 

The  Seaside  and  the  Fireside. 

Dedication  121 

By  the  Seaside. 

The  Building  of  the  Ship 122 

Chrysaor 126 

The  Secret  of  the  Sea 126 

Twilight 127 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert 127 

The  Lighthouse 128 

The  Fire  of  Drift-Wood 129 

By  the  Fireside. 

Resignation  . 129 

^ The  Builders 139 

Sand  of  the  Desert  in  an  Hour-Glass 130 

Birds  of  Passage  131 

The  Open  Window 132 

King  Witlaf’s  Drinking-Horn 132 

Gaspar  Becerra 132 

Pegasus  in  Pound 133 

Tegner’s  Drapa 133 

Sonnet 134 

The  Singers 134 

Suspiria 135 

Hymn 135 

The  Blind  Girl  of  Castel-Cuillfc 135 

A Christmas  Carol 140 

The  Song  of  Hiawatha. 

Introduction 141 

i.  The  Peace-Pipe 142 

ii.  The  Four  Winds 144 

in.  Hiawatha’s  Childhood . . . • . * 146 


vi 


CONTENTS. 


The  Song  of  Hiawatha  ( continued ). 

iv*  Hiawatha  and  Mudjekeewis 149 

v.  Hiawatha’s  Fasting 

vi.  Hiawatha’s  Friends , , , , 154 

vii.  Hiawatha’s  Sailing 156 

viii.  Hiawatha’s  Fishing 157 

ix.  Hiawatha  and  the  Pearl-Feather  159 

x.  Hiawatha’s  Wooing  162 

xi.  Hiawatha’s  Wedding-Feast 164 

xii.  The  Son  of  the  Evening  Star 167 

xiii.  Blessing  the  Cornfields  \ 170 

xiv.  Picture-Writing 172 

xv.  Hiawatha’s  Lamentation  . 174 

xvi.  Pau-Puk-Keewis 176 

xvii.  The  Hunting  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 178 

xviii.  The  Death  of  Kwasind 182 

xix.  The  Ghosts 183 

xx.  The  Famine 185 

xxi.  The  White  Man’s  Foot 186 

xxii.  Hiawatha’s  Departure 189 

The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish. 

1.  Miles  Standish K1 

11.  Love  and  Friendship 193 

hi.  The  Lover’s  Errand 195 

iv.  John  Alden 193 

v.  The  Sailing  of  the  May  Flower 200 

vi.  Priscilla  203 

vii.  The  March  of  Miles  Standish 205 

viii.  The  Spinning-Wheel 207 

ix.  The  Wedding-Day 209 

Birds  of  Passage. 

Flight  the  First. 

Prometheus,  or  the  Poet’s  Forethought 211 

The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine 212 

The  Phantom  Ship 212 

The  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports 213 

Haunted  Houses 214 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Cambridge 214 

The  Emperor’s  Bird’s-Nest 215 

The  Two  Angels 215 

Daylight  and  Moonlight 216 

The  Jewish  Cemetery  at  Newport  . 216 

Oliver  Basselin 217 

Victor  Galbraith 218 

My  Lost  Youth 219 

The  Ropewalk 220 

The  Golden  Mile-Stone 220 

Catawba  Wine 221 

Santa  Filomena 222 

The  Discoverer  of  the  North  Cape 222 

Daybreak 223 

The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz 224 


CONTENTS. 


Vll 


Children 

Sandalphon 

Flight  the  Second.  ^ 

— •'  The  Children’s  Hour  . . 

Enceladus 

The  Cumberland 

Snow-Flakes  ...... 

A Day  of  Sunshine  .... 

Something  left  Undone  . 

Weariness 

Flight  the  Third. 

Fata  Morgana 

The  Haunted  Chamber 

The  Meeting 

Vox  Populi 

The  Castle-Builder 

Changed  

The  Challenge  ...... 

The  Brook  and  the  Wave  . 

From  the  Spanish  Cancioneros 

Aftermath 

Epimetheus,  or  the  Poet’s  Afterthought 

Scales  of  a Wayside  Inn. 

Part  First. 

Prelude 

The  Wayside  Inn  .... 
The  Landlord’s  Tale. 

— Paul  Revere’s  Ride 

Interlude 

The  Student’s  Tale. 

The  Falcon  of  Ser  Federigo 

Interlude 

The  Spanish  Jew’s  Tale. 

The  Legend  of  Rabbi  Ben  Levi  . 

Interlude 

The  Sicilian’s  Tale. 

King  Robert  of  Sicily  . . , 

Interlude 

The  Musician’s  Tale. 

The  Saga  of  King  Olaf 
i.  The  Challenge  of  Thor 
ii.  King  Olaf  s Return 
hi.  Thora  of  Rimol 

iv.  Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty  . 

v.  The  Skerry  of  Shrieks 

vi.  The  Wraith  of  Odin 

vii.  Iron-Beard 

viii.  Gudrun 

ix.  Thangbrand  the  Priest 

x.  Raud  the  Strong  . 

xi.  Bishop  Sigurd  at  Salten  Fiord  . 
xn.  King  Olaf’ s Christmas  . 


224 

225 

225 

226 

226 

227 

227 

227 

228 

228 

228 

229 

229 

229 

229 

229 

230 

230 

231 

231 

232 

235 

237 

237 

241 

242 

243 

243 

246 

246 

246 

247 

248 

248 

249 

250 

251 

252 

253 

254 

254 

255 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


The  Saga  of  King  Olaf  ( continued ). 

xm.  The  Building  of  the  Long  Serpent 256 

xiv.  The  Crew  of  the  Long  Serpent 257 

xv.  A Little  Bird  in  the  Air 258 

xvi.  Queen  Thyri  and  the  Angelica  Stalks  258 

xvii.  King  Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard 259 

xviii.  King  Olaf  and  Earl  Sigvald 260 

xix.  King  Olaf’s  War-Horns 260 

xx.  Einar  Tamberskelver 261 

xxi.  King  Olaf  s Death-Drink 262 

xxii.  The  Nun  of  Nidaros 262 

Interlude  263 

The  Theologian’s  Tale. 

Torquemada 264 

Interlude 267 

The  Poet’s  Tale. 

The  Birds  of  Killingworth 268 

Finale  . 271 

Part  Second. 

Prelude 272 

The  Sicilian’s  Tale. 

The  Bell  of  Atri 273 

Interlude 275 

The  Spanish  Jew’s  Tale. 

Kambalu 275 

Interlude 277 

The  Student’s  Tale. 

The  Cobbler  of  Hagenau 277 

Interlude 279 

The  Musician’s  Tale. 

The  Ballad  of  Carmilhan  . . 280 

Interlude 283 

The  Poet’s  Tale. 

Lady  Wentworth 283 

Interlude 286 

The  Theologian’s  Tale. 

The  Legend  Beautiful 286 

Interlude 287 

The  Student’s  Second  Tale. 

The  Baron  of  St.  Castine 288 

Finale 291 

Part  Third. 

Prelude 29? 

The  Spanish  Jew’s  Tale. 

Azrael 293 

Interlude 293 

The  Poet’s  Tale. 

Charlemagne 294 

Interlude 295 

The  Student's  Tale. 

Emma  and  Eginhard 295 

Interlude 298 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


The  Theologian’s  Tale. 

Elizabeth ....  299 

Interlude . . . 304 

The  Sicilian’s  Tale. 

The  Monk  of  Casal-Maggiore . 304 

Interlude 309 

The  Spanish  Jew’s  Second  Tale. 

Scanderbeg . 309 

Interlude 311 

The  Musician’s  Tale. 

The  Mother’s  Ghost 312 

Interlude 313 

The  Landlord's  Tale. 

The  Rhyme  of  Sir  Christopher 314 

Finale 316 

Flower-de-Luce. 

Flower-de-Luce 317 

Palingenesis 317 

The  Bridge  of  Cloud 318 

Hawthorne  . . . y . . 319 

Christmas  Bells  . 319 

The  Wind  over  the  Chimney  320 

The  Bells  of  Lynn 320 

Killed  at  the  Ford 321 

Giotto’s  Tower 321 

To-morrow 321 

Divina  Commedia 322 

Noel 323 

Judas  Maccabjeus 324 

A Handful  of  Translations. 

The  Fugitive  336 

The  Siege  of  Kazan  337 

The  Boy  and  the  Brook 337 

To  the  Stork 338 

Consolation 338 

To  Cardinal  Richelieu 339 

The  Angel  and  the  Child 339 

To  Italy 339 

Wanderer’s  Night-Songs 340 

Remorse 340 

Santa  Teresa’s  Book-Mark 340 


The  Masque  of  Pandora. 

i.  The  Workshop  of  Hephaestus 

ii.  Olympus  . . 


hi.  Tower  of  Prometheus  on  Mount  Caucasus  . 342 

iv.  The  Air 344 

v.  The  House  of  Epimetheus 344 

vi.  In  the  Garden 346 

vii.  The  House  of  Epimetheus 349 

vm.  In  the  Garden  .......  ......  850 


X 


CONTENTS. 


The  Hanging  of  the  Crane  . 

Morituri  Salutamus 

Birds  of  Passage.  Flight  the  Fourth. 
Charles  Sumner  .... 
Travel*1  by  the  Fireside 

Cadeuabbia 

Monte  Cassino 

Amalfi 

The  Sermon  of  St.  Francis  . 

Belisarius 

Songo  River 

A Book  of  Sonnets. 

Three  Friends  of  Mine  . 

Chaucer 

Shakespeare 

Milton  

Keats 

The  Galaxy 

The  Sound  of  the  Sea 
A Summer  Day  by  the  Sea  . 

The  Tides 

A Shadow 

A Nameless  Grave  .... 

Sleep 

The  Old  Bridge  at  Florence  . 

II  Ponte  Vecchio  di  Firenze 

Kkramos  ,y 

Birds  of  Passage.  Flight  the  Fifth. 
The  Herons  of  Elmwood  . 

A Dutch  Picture  .... 

Castles  in  Spain 

Vittoria  Colonna  .... 
The  Revenge  of  Rain-in-the-Face 
To  the  River  Yvette 
The  Emperor’s  Glove  . 

A Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet  . 

The  Leap  of  Roushan  Beg  . 

Haroun  A1  Raschid  .... 

King  Trisanku 

A Wraith  in  the  Mist 

The  Three  Kings 

Song 

The  White  Czar 

Delia 

A Book  of  Sonnets.  Part  Second. 

Nature 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Tarrytown  . 

Eliot’s  Oak 

The  Descent  of  the  Muses 


352 

354 

358 

359 

359 

360 

361 

362 

362 

363 

364 

365 

365 

365 

366 

3 66 

366 

366 

367 

367 

367 

367 

368 

368 

368 

372 

373 

373 

374 

375 

376 

376 

376 

377 

378 

378 

378 

378 

379 

379 

380 

380 

380 

381 

381 


CONTENTS. 


Xl 


Venice 381 

The  Poets 381 

Parker  Cleaveland 381 

The  Harvest  Moon 382 

To  the  River  Rhone 382 

The  Three  Silences  of  Molinos 3S2 

The  Two  Rivers 383 

Boston 383 

St.  John’s,  Cambridge 384 

Moods 384 

Woodstock  Park 384 

The  Foui*  Princesses  at  Wilna 3S4 

Holidays 385 

Wapentake 3S5 

The  Broken  Oar 385 

Translations. 

Virgil’s  First  Eclogue 386 

Ovid  in  Exile 387 

On  the  Terrace  of  the  Aigalades 390 

To  my  Brooklet 391 

Barreges 391 

Forsaken 391 

Allah 392 

Seven  Sonnets  and  a Canzone,  from  the  Italian  of  Michael  Angelo. 

I.  The  Artist 392 

II.  Fire 392 

III.  Youth  and  Age 392 

IV.  Old  Age 393 

V.  To  Vittoria  Colonna 393 

VI.  To  Vittoria  Colonna  393 

VII.  Dante 393 

VIII.  Canzone 394 

Notes 395 


Index 


415 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT, 


HoTVia,  noTVia  vv£, 

V7TVo86T€Lpa  TU)V  7To\V7 TOVIOV  {ZpOTUiV, 

’EpefioOev  19  C p.o\e  p.6\e  Karanrepos 
' Ay  ap.ep.vov  lov  eiri  8op.ov  • 
viTO  yap  a\yeujv,  xmo  re  (rvju^opa? 
6cotxop,e0’,  o\.\op.e9a. 

Euripides. 


PRELUDE. 

Pleasant  it  was,  when  woods  were  green, 
And  winds  were  soft  and  low, 

To  lie  amid  some  sylvan  scene. 

Where,  the  long  drooping  boughs  between, 
Shadows  dark  and  sunlight  sheen 
Alternate  come  and  go  ; 

Or  where  the  denser  grove  receives 
No  sunlight  from  above, 

But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 
In  one  unbroken  roof  of  leaves, 
Underneath  whose  sloping  eaves 
The  shadows  hardly  move. 

Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree 
I lay  upon  the  ground  ; 

His  hoary  arms  uplifted  he, 

And  all  the  broad  leaves  over  me 
Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee, 

With  one  continuous  sound  ; — 

A slumberous  sound,  a sound  that  brings 
The  feelings  of  a dream, 

As  of  innumerable  wings, 

As,  when  a bell  no  longer  swings, 

Faint  the  hollow  murmur  rings 
O’er  meadow,  lake,  and  stream. 

And  dreams  of  that  which  cannot  die, 
Bright  visions,  came  to  me. 

As  lapped  in  thought  I used  to  lie, 

And  gaze  into  the  summer  sky, 

Where  the  sailing  clouds  went  by, 

Like  ships  upon  the  sea  ; 

Dreams  that  the  soul  of  youth  engage 
Ere  Fancy  has  been  quelled  ; 

l 


Old  legends  of  the  monkish  page, 
Traditions  of  the  saint  and  sage, 

Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 

And  chronicles  of  Eld. 

And,  loving  still  these  quaint  old  themes, 
Even  in  the  city’s  throng 
I feel  the  freshness  of  the  streams, 

That,  crossed  by  shades  and  sunny 
gleams, 

Water  the  green  land  of  dreams, 

The  holy  land  of  song. 

Therefore,  at  Pentecost,  which  brings 
The  Spring,  clothed  like  a bride, 
When  nestling  buds  unfold  their  wings, 
And  bishop’s-caps  have  golden  rings, 
Musing  upon  many  things, 

I sought  the  woodlands  wide. 

The  green  trees  whispered  low  and  mild ; 

It  was  a sound  of  joy  ! 

They  wxre  my  playmates  when  a child, 
And  rocked  me  in  their  arms  so  wild  ! 
Still  they  looked  at  me  and  smiled, 

As  if  I were  a boy  ; 

And  ever  whispered,  mild  and  low, 

“ Come,  be  a child  once  more  ! ” 

And  waved  their  long  arms  to  and  fro, 
And  beckoned  solemnly  and  slow  ; 

0,  I could  not  choose  but  go 
Into  the  woodlands  hoar,  — 

Into  the  blithe  and  breathing  aitv 
Into  the  solemn  wood, 

Solemn  and  silent  everywhere  ! 

Nature  with  folded  hands  seemed  there, 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer  ! 

Like  one  in  prayer  I stood. 


2 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


Before  me  rose  an  avenue 
Of  tall  and  sombrous  pines  ; 

Abroad  their  fan-like  branches  grew, 
And,  where  the  sunshine  darted  through, 
Spread  a vapor  soft  and  blue, 

In  long  and  sloping  lines. 

And,  falling  on  my  weary  brain, 

Like  a fast-falling  shower, 

The  dreams  of  youth  came  back  again, 
Low  lispings  of  the  summer  rain, 
Dropping  on  the  ripened  grain, 

As  once  upon  the  flower. 

Visions  of  childhood  ! Stay,  0 stay  ! 

Ye  were  so  sweet  and  wild  ! 

And  distant  voices  seemed  to  say, 

“ It  cannot  be  ! They  pass  away  ! 
Other  themes  demand  thy  lay  ; 

Thou  art  no  more  a child  ! 

“ The  land  of  Song  within  thee  lies, 
Watered  by  living  springs  ; 

The  lids  of  Fancy’s  sleepless  eyes 
Are  gates  unto  that  Paradise, 

Holy  thoughts,  like  stars,  arise, 

Its  clouds  are  angels’  wings. 

“ Learn,  that  henceforth  thy  song  shall 
be, 

Not  mountains  capped  with  snow, 

Nor  forests  sounding  like  the  sea, 

Nor  rivers  flowing  ceaselessly, 

Where  the  woodlands  bend  to  see 
The  bending  heavens  below. 

“ There  is  a forest  where  the  din 
Of  iron  branches  sounds  ! 

A mighty  river  roars  between, 

And  whosoever  looks  therein 
Sees  the  heavens  all  black  with  sin, 

Sees  not  its  depths,  nor  bounds. 

“Athwart  the  swinging  branches  cast, 
Soft  rays  of  sunshine  pour  ; 

Then  comes  the  fearful  wintry  blast  ; 
Our  hopes,  like  withered  leaves,  fall  fast ; 
Pallid  lips  say,  4 It  is  past  ! 

We  can  return  no  more  ! ’ 

“Look,  then,  into  thine  heart,  and 
write  ! 

Yes,  into  Life’s  deep  stream  ! 

All  forms  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

All  solemn  Voices  of  the  Night, 

That  can  soothe  thee,  or  affright,  — 

Be  these  henceforth  thy  theme.” 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT. 

’ A (T7r acr i't?,  rpCWiarros. 

I heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the 
Night 

Sweep  through  her  marble  halls  ! 

I saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with 
light 

From  the  celestial  walls  ! 

I felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might. 
Stoop  o’er  me  from  above  ; 

The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 
As  of  the  one  I love. 

I heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 
The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 

That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the 
Night, 

Like  some  old  poet’s  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight 
air 

My  spirit  drank  repose  ; 

The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows 
there,  — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

0 holy  Night  ! from  thee  I learn  to  bear 
What  man  has  borne  before  ! 

Thou  layest  thy  linger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 
And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace  ! Peace  ! Orestes-like  I breathe 
this  prayer  ! 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the 
most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night  ! 


A PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

WHAT  THE  HEART  OF  THE  YOUNG  MAN 
SAID  TO  THE  PSALMIST. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real ! Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 

Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 


THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS. 


3 


But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and 
brave, 

- Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world’s  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 

Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe’er  pleasant  ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 

Act,  — act  in  the  living  Present  ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o’erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ; — 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o’er  life’s  solemn  main, 

A forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a heart  for  any  fate  ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

There  is  a Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death, 
And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 

He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a breath, 
And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

“ Shall  I have  naught  that  is  fair  ? ” 
saith  he  ; 

“ Have  naught  but  the  bearded  grain  ? 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is 
sweet  to  me, 

I will  give  them  all  back  again.” 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 
He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves  ; 

It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 
He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

“My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets 
Ray,” 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled  ; 

“ Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 
Where  he  was  once  a child. 


“ They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 
Transplanted  by  my  care, 

And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 
These  sacred  blossoms  wear.” 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 
The  flowers  she  most  did  love  ; 

She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 
In  the  fields  of  light  above. 

0,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 

The  Reaper  came  that  day  ; 

’T  was  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth. 
And  took  the  flowers  away. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS. 

The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon ; 
And  sinking  silently, 

All  silently,  the  little  moon 
Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 

0 no  ! from  that  blue  tent  above, 

A hero’s  armor  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 
When  I behold  afar, 

Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

0 star  of  strength  ! I see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain  ; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 

1 give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  un conquered  will. 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 

Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

And  thou,  too,  -whosoe’er  thou  art. 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart. 

Be  resolute  and  calm. 


4 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


0 fear  not  in  a world  like  this, 
And  thou  shalt  know  erelong, 
Know  how  sublime  a thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong. 


FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS. 

When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 
And  the  voices  of  the  Night 
Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 
To  a holy,  calm  delight  ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 

And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 
Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall  ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 
Enter  at  the  open  door  ; 

The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  roadside  fell  and  perished, 

Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 

Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 
Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a saint  in  heaven. 

With  a slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 

Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 

Is  the  spirit’s  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

0,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 

Ail  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 

If  I but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died  ! 


FLOWERS. 

Spake  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and 
olden, 

One  who  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Rhine, 

When  he  called  the  flowers,  so  blue  and 
golden, 

Stars,  that  in  earth’s  firmament  do 
shine. 

Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  his- 
tory, 

As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld  ; 

Yet  not  wrapped  about  with  awful  mys- 
tery, 

Like  the  burning  stars,  which  they 
beheld. 

Wondrous  truths,  and  manifold  as  won- 
drous, 

God  hath  written  in  those  stars  above  ; 

But  not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  un- 
der us 

Stands  the  revelation  of  his  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation, 

Written  all  over  this  great  world  of 
ours ; 

Making  evident  our  own  creation, 

In  these  stars  of  earth,  these  golden 
flowers. 

And  the  Poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 

Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a part 

Of  the  self-same,  universal  being, 

Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and 
heart. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shin- 
ing* 

Blossoms  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  day, 

Tremulous  leaves,  with  soft  and  silver 
lining, 

Buds  that  open  only  to  decay  ; 

Brilliant  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous 
tissues, 

Flaunting  gayly  in  the  golden  light ; 

Large  desires,  with  most  uncertain  is- 
sues, 

Tender  wishes,  blossoming  at  night ! 

These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than 
seeming  ; 

Workings  are  they  of  the  self-same 
powers, 

Which  the  Poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 

Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR. 


5 


Everywhere  about  us  are  they  glowing, 
Some  like  stars,  to  tell  us  Spring  is 
born  ; 

Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  o’er- 
flowing, 

Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  corn ; 

Not  alone  in  Spring’s  armorial  bearing, 
And  in  Summer’s  green-emblazoned 
field, 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn’s  wear- 
ing, 

In  the  centre  of  his  brazen  shield  ; 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys, 
On  the  mountain -top,  and  by  the  brink 
Of  sequestered  pools  in  woodland  valleys, 
Where  the  slaves  of  nature  stoop  to 
drink  ; 

Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 

Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone, 
But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 
On  the  tombs  of  heroes,  carved  in  stone ; 

In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant, 

In  ancestral  homes,  whose  crumbling 
towers, 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 
Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flow- 
ers ; 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 
Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul- 
like wings, 

Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 

And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection 
We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand  ; 
Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection, 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 


THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY. 

I have  read,  in  some  old,  marvellous  tale, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau’s  rushing  stream, 
With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 

There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 

The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a sea-fog,  landward  bound, 
The  spectral  camp  was  seen, 


And,  with  a sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 

No  drum,  nor  sentry’s  pace  ; 

The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air, 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 
The  troubled  army  fled  ; 

Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of 
man, 

That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life’s  rushing  stream, 
In  Fancy’s  misty  light, 

Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 
Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 
The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 

And,  with  a sorrowful,  deep  sound, 
Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave  ; 

No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life’s  wave. 

And  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church- 
bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 

The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 
The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Yale  of  Tears  afar 
The  spectral  camp  is  fled  ; 

Faith  shineth  as  a morning  star, 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DY* 
ING  YEAR. 

Yes,  the  Year  is  growing  old, 

And  his  eye  is  pale  and  bleared  ! 
Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 
Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard, 
Sorely,  sorely  ! 


6 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow ; 

Caw  ! caw  ! the  rooks  are  calling, 

It  is  a sound  of  woe, 

A sound  of  woe  ! 

Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 
The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll ; 

They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 
Singing,  “ Pray  for  this  poor  soul. 
Pray,  pray  ! ” 

And  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars, 

Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 

And  patter  their  doleful  prayers  ; 

But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain, 

All  in  vain  ! 

There  he  stands  in  the  foul  weather, 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 

Crowned  with  wild  flowers  and  with 
heather, 

Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 

A king,  a king  ! 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day, 

Bids  the  old  man  rejoice  ! 

His  joy  ! his  last  ! O,  the  old  man  gray 
Loveth  that  ever-soft  voice, 

Gentle  and  low. 

To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith. 

To  the  voice  gentle  and  low 


Of  the  soft  air,  like  a daughter’s  breath, 
“ Pray  do  not  mock  me  so  ! 

Do  not  laugh  at  me  ! ” 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead  ; 

Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies  ; 

No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 
Over  the  glassy  skies, 

No  mist  or  stain  ! 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 

And  the  forests  utter  a moan, 

Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 
In  the  wilderness  alone, 

“ Yex  not  his  ghost  ! ” 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 
Gathering  and  sounding  on, 

The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 

The  wind  Euroclydon, 

The  .storm-wind  ! 

Howl ! howl  ! and  from  the  forest 
Sweep  the  red  leaves  away  ! 

Would,  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest, 

0 Soul  ! could  thus  decay, 

And  be  swept  away  ! 

For  there  shall  come  a mightier  blast. 
There  shall  be  a darker  day  ; 

And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down-cast 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away  1 
Kyrie,  eleyson  ! 

Christe,  eleyson  ! 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


[These  poems  were  written  for  the  most  part  during  my  college  life,  and  all  of  them  before  the  age 
of  nineteen.  Some  have  found  their  way  into  schools,  and  seem  to  be  successful.  Others  lead  a 
vagabond  and  precarious  existence  in  the  corners  of  newspapers  ; or  have  changed  their  names  and 
run  away  to  seek  their  fortunes  beyond  the  sea.  I say,  with  the  Bishop  of  Avranches  on  a similar 
occasion  : “ I cannot  be  displeased  to  see  these  children  of  mine,  which  I have  neglected,  and 
almost  exposed,  brought  from  their  wanderings  in  lanes  and  alleys,  and  safely  lodged,  in  order  to 
go  forth  into  the  world  together  in  a more  decorous  garb.,Jj 


AN  APRIL  DAY. 

When  the  warm  sun,  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned 
again, 

’T  is  sweet  to  visit  the  still  wood,  where 
springs 

The  flrst  flower  of  the  plain. 


I love  the  season  well, 

When  forest  glades  are  teeming  -with 
bright  forms, 

Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 
The  coming-on  of  storms. 

From  the  earth’s  loosened  mould 
The  sapling  draws  its  sustenance,  and 
thrives  ; 


WOODS  IN  WINTER. 


7 


Though  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter’s 
cold. 

The  drooping  tree  revives. 

The  softly-warbled  song 

Comes  from  the  pleasant  woods,  and  col- 
ored wings 

Glance  quick  in  the  bright  sun,  that 
moves  along 

The  forest  openings. 

When  the  bright  sunset  fills 

The  silver  woods  with  light,  the  green 
slope  throws 

Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills, 

And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And  when  the  eve  is  born, 

In  the  blue  lake  the  sky,  o’er-reaching 
far, 

Is  hollowed  out,  and  the  moon  dips  her 
horn, 

And  twinkles  many  a star. 

Inverted  in  the  tide 

Stand  the  gray  rocks,  and  trembling 
shadows  throw, 

And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  side  by  side, 

And  see  themselves  below. 

Sweet  April  ! many  a thought 

Is  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed  ; 

Nor  shall  they  fail,  till,  to  its  autumn 
brought, 

Life’s  golden  fruit  is  shed. 


AUTUMN. 

With  what  a glory  comes  and  goes  the 
year  ! 

The  buds  of  spring,  those  beautiful  har- 
bingers 

Of  sunny  skies  and  cloudless  times,  enjoy 

Life’s  newness,  and  earth’s  garniture 
spread  out ; 

And  when  the  silver  habit  of  the  clouds 

Comes  down  upon  the  autumn  sun,  and 
with 

A sober  gladness  the  old  year  takes  up 

His  bright  inheritance  of  golden  fruits, 

A pomp  and  pageant  fill  the  splendid 
scene. 

There  is  a beautiful  spirit  breathing 
now 

Its  mellow  richness  on  the  clustered 
trees, 


And,  from  a beaker  full  of  richest  dyes, 

Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  woods, 

And  dipping  in  warm  light  the  pillared 
clouds. 

Morn  on  the  mountain,  like  a summer 
bird* 

Lifts  up  her  purple  wing,  and  in  the 
vales 

The  gentle  wind,  a sweet  and  passionate 
wooer, 

Kisses  the  blushing  leaf,  and  stirs  up 
life 

Within  the  solemn  woods  of  ash  deep- 
crimsoned, 

And  silver  beech,  and  maple  yellow- 
leaved, 

Where  Autumn,  like  a faint  old  man, 
sits  down 

By  the  wayside  a-weary.  Through  the 
trees 

The  golden  robin  moves.  The  purple 
finch, 

That  on  wild  cherry  and  red  cedar  feeds, 

A winter  bird,  comes  with  its  plaintive 
whistle, 

And  pecks  by  the  witch-hazel,  whilst 
aloud 

From  cottage  roofs  the  warbling  blue- 
bird sings, 

And  merrily,  with  oft-repeated  stroke, 

Sounds  from  the  threshing-floor  the  busy 
flail. 

O what  a glory  doth  this  world  put  on 

For  him  who,  with  a fervent  heart,,  goes 
forth 

Under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky,  and 
looks 

On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well 
spent  ! 

For  him  the  wind,  ay,  and  the  yellow 
leaves, 

Shall  have  a voice,  and  give  him  eloquent 
teachings. 

He  shall  so  hear  the  solemn  hymn  that 
Death 

Has  lifted  up  for  all,  that  he  shall  go 

To  his  long  resting-place  without  a tear. 


WOODS  IN  WINTER. 

When  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 
And  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the 
gale, 

With  solemn  feet  I tread  the  hill, 

That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 


8 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


O’er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert 
woods, 

The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 
And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 
And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute 
springs 

Pour  out  the  river’s  gradual  tide, 
Shrilly  the  skater’s  iron  rings, 

And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas  ! how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 
And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were 
green, 

And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day  ! 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods  ! within  your 
crowd  ; 

And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 
Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Chill  airs  and  wintry  winds  ! my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song  ; 

I hear  it  in  the  opening  year, 

I listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS 
OF  BETHLEHEM. 

AT  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  PULASKI’S 
BANNER. 

When  the  dying  flame  of  day 
Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 

Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 
Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head  ; 

And  the  censer  burning  swung, 

Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 
The  crimson  banner,  that  with  prayer 
Had  been  consecrated  there. 

And  the  nuns’  sweet  hymn  was  heard 
the  while, 

Sung  low,  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 

“Take  thy  banner  ! May  it  wave 
Proudly  o’er  the  good  and  brave  ; 
When  the  battle’s  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  sabbath  of  our  vale, 


When  the  clarion’s  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 
When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering 
breaks. 

“ Take  thy  banner  ! and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud’s  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it,  till  our  homes  are  free  ! 
Guard  it  ! God  will  prosper  thee  ! 
In  the  dark  and  trying  hour, 

In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 

In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 

His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 

‘ ‘ Take  thy  banner  ! But  when  night 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 

If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 
Spare  him  ! By  our  holy  vow, 

By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 

By  the  mercy  that  endears, 

Spare  him  ! he  our  love  hath  shared ! 
Spare  him  ! as  thou  wouldst  be 
spared  ! 

“ Take  thy  banner  ! and  if  e’er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier’s 
bier, 

And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 

Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee.” 

The  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 
And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud  ! 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLS. 

I stood  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven’s 
wide  arch 

Was  glorious  with  the  sun’s  returning 
march, 

And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft 
gales 

Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 

The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me  ; bathed 
in  light, 

They  gathered  mid- way  round  the  wood- 
ed height, 

And,  in  their  fading  glory,  shone 

Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown, 

As  many  a pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance, 

Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its 
shattered  lance, 

And  rocking  on  the  cliff  was  left 

The  dark  pine  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 


9 


The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted,  and  below 
Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river’s 
flow 

Was  darkened  by  the  forest’s  shade, 

Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade  ; 
Where  upward,  in  the  mellow  blush  of 
day, 

The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 

I heard  the  distant  waters  dash, 

I saw  the  current  whirl  and  flash, 

And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake’s  silver 
beach, 

The  woods  were  bending  with  a silent 
reach. 

Then  o’er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell, 
The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills  ; 
And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  wood- 
land fills, 

Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout, 

That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out, 
Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot, 
thin  smoke, 

Vh rough  thick-leaved  branches,  from  the 
dingle  broke. 

If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows,  that  thou  wouldst  forget, 
Xf  thou  wouldst  read  a lesson,  that  will 
keep 

7hy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul 
from  sleep, 

Go  to  the  woods  and  hills  ! No  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 

There  is  a quiet  spirit  in  these  woods, 

That  dwells  where’er  the  gentle  south- 
wind  blows  ; 

Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn,  in 
the  glade, 

The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or,  kissing  the 
soft  air, 

The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  out- 
spread. 

With  what  a tender  and  impassioned  voice 

It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought, 

When  the  fast  ushering  star  of  morning 
comes 

O’er-riding  the  gray  hills  with  golden 
scarf ; 

Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandaled 
Eve, 

In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western 
gate, 


Departs  with  silent  pace  ! That  spirit 
moves 

In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver 
brook, 

From  its  full  laver,  pours  the  white  cas- 
cade ; 

And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled 
woods, 

Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones 
with  endless  laughter. 

And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills. 

Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 
In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm. 
And  shouts  the  stern,  strong  wind.  And 
here,  amid 

The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods,  j 
Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts 
from  earth, 

As  to  the  sunshine  and  the  pure,  bright 
air 

Their  tops  the  green  trees  lift.  Hence 
gifted  bards 

Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet 
shades. 

For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in 
all 

The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  the  golden 
sun, 

The  flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river  on  its 
way, 

Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle 
winds, 

The  swelling  upland,  where  the  sidelong 
sun 

Aslant  the  wooded  slope,  at  evening, 
goes, 

Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  the 
sky  looks  in, 

Mountain,  and  shattered  cliff,  and  sunny 
vale, 

The  distant  lake,  fountains,  and  mighty 
trees, 

In  many  a lazy  syllable,  repeating 
Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 

And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit,  that  doth 
fill 

The  world  ; and,  in  these  wayward  days 
of  youth, 

My  busy  fancy  oft  embodies  it, 

As  a bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty 
That  dwell  in  nature  ; of  the  heavenly 
forms 

We  worship  in  our  dreams,  and  the  soft 
hues 

That  stain  the  wild  bird’s  wing,  and  flush 
the  clouds 


10 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


When  the  sun  sets.  Within  her  tender 
eye 

The  heaven  of  April,  with  its  changing 
light, 

And  when  it  wears  the  blue  of  May,  is 
hung, 

And  on  her  lip  the  rich,  red  rose.  Her 
hair 

Is  like  the  summer  tresses  of  the  trees, 

When  twilight  makes  them  brown,  and 
on  her  cheek 

Blushes  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky, 

With  ever-shifting  beauty.  Then  her 
breath. 

It  is  so  like  the  gentle  air  of  Spring, 

As,  from  the  morning’s  dewy  flowers,  it 
comes 

Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  is  a joy 

To  have  it  round  us,  and  her  silver  voice 

Is  the  rich  music  of  a summer  bird, 

Heard  in  the  still  night,  with  its  passion- 
ate cadence. 


BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK. 

On  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell, 

The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell ; 
And,  where  the  maple’s  leaf  was  brown, 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down, 
The  glory,  that  the  wood  receives, 

At  sunset,  in  its  golden  leaves. 

Ear  upward  in  the  mellow  light 
Rose  the  blue  hills.  One  cloud  of  white, 
Around  a far  uplifted  cone. 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone  ; 

An  image  of  the  silver  lakes, 

By  which  the  Indian’s  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a funeral  hymn  was  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 


The  tall,  gray  forest  ; and  a band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand, 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 

To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
Fie  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  llowers, 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior’s  head  ; 

But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 

So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 

A dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck’s  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid  ; 

The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds, 

And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and 
beads. 

Before,  a dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death  dirge  of  the  slain  ; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 

With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief, 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial 
dress, 

Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless, 

With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread, 

He  came  ; and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 

They  buried  the  dark  chief;  they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed  ; 

And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart  ! One  piercing  neigh 
Arose,  and,  on  the  dead  man’s  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 


11 


TRANSLATIONS. 


[Don  Jorge  Manrique,  the  author  of  the  following  poem,  flourished  in  the  last  half  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  lie  followed  the  profession  of  arms,  and  died  on  the  field  of  battle.  Mariana,  in  his  His- 
tory of  Spain,  makes  honorable  mention  of  him,  as  being  present  at  the  siege  of  Ucl6s  ; and  speaks 
of  him  as  “ a youth  of  estimable  qualities,  who  in  this  war  gave  brilliant  proofs  of  his  valor.  He 
died  young ; and  was  thus  cut  off  from  long  exercising  his  great  virtues,  and  exhibiting  to  the 
world  the  light  of  his  genius,  which  was  already  known  to  fame.”  He  was  mortally  wounded  in  a 
skirmish  near  Canavete,  in  the  year  1479. 

The  name  of  Rodrigo  Manrique,  the  father  of  the  poet,  Conde  de  Paredes  and  Maestre  de  Santiago, 
is  well  known  in  Spanish  history  and  song.  He  died  in  1476 ; according  to  Mariana,  in  the  town  of 
Ucl6s ; but,  according  to  the  poem  of  his  son,  in  Ocana.  It  was  his  death  that  called  forth  the  poem 
upon  which  rests  the  literary  reputation  of  the  younger  Manrique.  In  the  language  of  his  historian, 
“ Don  Jorge  Manrique,  in  an  elegant  Ode,  full  of  poetic  beauties,  rich  embellishments  of  genius  and 
high  moral  reflections,  mourned  the  death  of  his  father  as  with  a funeral  hymn.”  This  praise  is 
not  exaggerated.  The  poem  is  a model  in  its  kind.  Its  conception  is  solemn  and  beautiful ; and,  in 
accordance  with  it,  the  style  moves  on,  — calm,  dignified,  and  majestic.] 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH. 

O let  the  soul  her  slumbers  break, 

Let  thought  be  quickened,  and  awake  ; 
Awake  to  see 

How  soon  this  life  is  past  and  gone, 
And  death  comes  softly  stealing  on, 
How  silently  ! 

Swiftly  our  pleasures  glide  away, 

Our  hearts  recall  the  distant  day 
With  many  sighs  ; 

The  moments  that  are  speeding  fast 
We  heed  not,  but  the  past,  — the  past, 
More  highly  prize. 

Onward  its  course  the  present  keeps, 
Onward  the  constant  current  sweeps, 
Till  life  is  done  ; 

And,  did  we  judge  of  time  aright, 

The  past  and  future  in  their  flight 
W ould  be  as  one. 

Let  no  one  fondly  dream  again, 

That  Hope  and  all  her  shadowy  train 
Will  not  decay ; 

Fleeting  as  were  the  dreams  of  old, 
Remembered  like  a tale  that ’s  told, 
They  pass  away. 

Our  lives  are  rivers,  gliding  free 
To  that  unfathomed,  boundless  sea, 
The  silent  grave  ! 

Thither  all  earthly  pomp  and  boast 
Roll,  to  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  one  dark  wave. 


Thither  the  mighty  torrents  stray, 
Thither  the  brook  pursues  its  way, 

And  tinkling  rill. 

There  all  are  equal ; side  by  side 
The  poor  man  and  the  son  of  pride 
Lie  calm  and  still. 

I will  not  here  invoke  the  throng 
Of  orators  and  sons  of  song, 

The  deathless  few  ; 

Fiction  entices  and  deceives, 

And,  sprinkled  o’er  her  fragrant  leaves, 
Lies  poisonous  dew. 

To  One  alone  my  thoughts  arise, 

The  Eternal  Truth,  the  Good  and  Wise, 
To  Him  I cry, 

Who  shared  on  earth  our  common  lot, 
But  the  world  comprehended  not 
His  deity. 

This  world  is  but  the  rugged  road 
Which  leads  us  to  the  bright  abode 
Of  peace  above  ; 

So  let  us  choose  that  narrow  way. 
Which  leads  no  traveller’s  foot  astray 
From  realms  of  love. 

Our  cradle  is  the  starting-place, 
life  is  the  running  of  the  race, 

We  reach  the  goal 
When,  in  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 
Death  leaves  to  its  eternal  rest 
The  weary  soul. 

Did  we  but  use  it  as  we  ought, 

This  world  would  school  each  wandering 
thought 


12 


TRANSLATIONS. 


To  its  high  state. 

Faith  wings  the  soul  beyond  the  sky, 

Up  to  that  better  world  oil  high, 

For  which  we  wait. 

Yes,  the  glad  messenger  of  love. 

To  guide  us  to  our  home  above, 

The  Saviour  came  ; 

Born  amid  mortal  cares  and  fears. 

He  suffered  in  this  vale  of  tears 
A death  of  shame. 

Behold  of  what  delusive  worth 
The  bubbles  we  pursue  on  earth, 

The  shapes  we  chase. 

Amid  a world  of  treachery  ! 

They  vanish  ere  death  shuts  the  eye, 
And  leave  no  trace. 

Time  steals  them  from  us,  chances 
strange, 

Disastrous  accident,  and  change, 

That  come  to  all ; 

Even  in  the  most  exalted  state, 
Belentless  sweeps  the  stroke  of  fate  ; 

The  strongest  fall. 

Tell  me,  the  charms  that  lovers  seek 
In  the  clear  eye  and  blushing  cheek, 

The  hues  that  play 

O’er  rosy  lip  and  brow  of  snow, 

When  hoary  age  approaches  slow. 

Ah,  where  are  they  ? 

The  cunning  skill,  the  curious  arts, 

The  glorious  strength  that  youth  imparts 
In  life’s  first  stage; 

These  shall  become  a heavy  weight, 
When  Time  swings  wide  his  outward  gate 
To  weary  age. 

The  noble  blood  of  Gothic  name, 

Heroes  emblazoned  high  to  fame, 

In  long  array  ; 

How,  in  the  onward  course  of  time, 

The  landmarks  of  that  race  sublime 
Were  swept  away  ! 

Some,  the  degraded  slaves  of  lust, 
Prostrate  and  trampled  in  the  dust, 

Shall  rise  no  more  ; 

Others,  by  guilt  and  crime,  maintain 
The  scutcheon,  that,  without  a stain, 
Their  fathers  bore. 

Wealth  and  the  high  estate  of  pride, 
With  what  untimely  speed  they  glide, 
How  soon  depart  ! 


Bid  not  the  shadowy  phantoms  stay, 

The  vassals  of  a mistress  they, 

Of  fickle  heart. 

These  gifts  in  Fortune’s  hands  are  found  ; 
Her  swift  revolving  wheel  turns  round, 
And  they  are  gone  ! 

No  rest  the  inconstant  goddess  knows, 
But  changing,  and  without  repose, 

Still  hurries  on. 

Even  could  the  hand  of  avarice  save 
Its  gilded  baubles  till  the  grave 
Reclaimed  its  prey, 

Let  none  on  such  poor  hopes  rely  ; 

Life,  like  an  empty  dream,  flits  by, 

And  where  are  they  ? 

Earthly  desires  and  sensual  lust 
Are  passions  springing  from  the  dust. 
They  fade  and  die  ; 

But,  in  the  life  beyond  the  tomb. 

They  seal  the  immortal  spirit’s  doom 
Eternally  ! 

The  pleasures  and  delights,  which  mask 
In  treacherous  smiles  life’s  serious  task, 
What  are  they,  all, 

But  the  fleet  coursers  of  the  chase, 

And  death  an  ambush  in  the  race. 
Wherein  we  fall  ? 

No  foe,  no  dangerous  pass,  we  heed. 
Brook  no  delay,  but  onward  speed 
With  loosened  rein  ; 

And,  when  the  fatal  snare  is  near, 

W e strive  to  check  our  mad  career. 

But  strive  in  vain. 

Could  we  new  charms  to  age  impart. 
And  fashion  with  a cunning  art 
The  human  face. 

As  we  can  clothe  the  soul  with  light, 
And  make  the  glorious  spirit  bright 
With  heavenly  grace, 

How  busily  each  passing  hour 
Should  we  exert  that  magic  power, 
What  ardor  show, 

To  deck  the  sensual  slave  of  sin, 

Yet  leave  the  freeborn  soul  within. 

In  weeds  of  woe  ! 

Monarchs,  the  powerful  and  the  strong. 
Famous  in  history  and  in  song 
Of  olden  time. 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 


13 


Saw,  by  the  stern  decrees  of  fate, 

Their  kingdoms  lost,  and  desolate 
Their  race  sublime. 

AVho  is  the  champion  ? who  the  strong  ? 
Pontiff  and  priest,  and  sceptred  throng  ? 
On  these  shall  fall 
As  heavily  the  hand  of  Death, 

As  when  it  stays  the  shepherd’s  breath 
Beside  his  stall. 

I speak  not  of  the  Trojan  name, 

N either  its  glory  nor  its  shame 
Has  met  our  eyes  ; 

Nor  of  Rome’s  great  and  glorious  dead, 
Though  we  have  heard  so  oft,  and  read, 
Their  histories. 

Little  avails  it  now  to  know 
Of  ages  passed  so  long  ago, 

Nor  how  they  rolled  ; 

Our  theme  shall  be  of  yesterday, 

Which  to  oblivion  sweeps  away, 

Like  days  of  old. 

Where  is  the  King,  Don  Juan  ? Where 
Each  royal  prince  and  noble  heir 
Of  Aragon  ? 

Where  are  the  courtly  gallantries  ? 

The  deeds  of  love  and  high  emprise, 

In  battle  done  ? 

Tourney  and  joust,  that  charmed  the  eye, 
And  scarf,  and  gorgeous  panoply, 

And  nodding  plume, 

What  were  they  but  a pageant  scene  ? 
What  but  the  garlands,  gay  and  green, 
That  deck  the  tomb  ? 

Where  are  the  high-born  dames,  and 
where 

Their  gay  attire,  and  jewelled  hair, 

And  odors  sweet  ? 

Where  are  the  gentle  knights,  that  came 
To  kneel,  and  breathe  love’s  ardent  flame, 
Low  at  their  feet  ? 

Where  is  the  song  of  Troubadour  ? 

Where  are  the  lute  and  gay  tambour 
They  loved  of  yore  ? 

Where  is  the  mazy  dance  of  old, 

The  flowing  robes,  inwrought  with  gold, 
The  dancers  wore  ? 

And  he  who  next  the  sceptre  swayed, 
Henry,  whose  royal  court  displayed 
Such  power  and  pride  ; 


0,  in  what  winning  smiles  arrayed, 

The  world  its  various  pleasures  laid 
His  throne  beside  ! 

But  0 how  false  and  full  of  guile 
That  world,  which  wore  so  soft  a smile 
But  to  betray  ! 

She,  that  had  been  his  friend  before, 
Now  from  the  fated  monarch  tore 
Her  charms  away. 

The  countless  gifts,  the  stately  walls, 
The  royal  palaces,  and  halls 
All  tilled  with  gold  ; 

Plate  with  armorial  bearings  wrought, 
Chambers  witli  ample  treasures  fraught 
Of  wealth  untold ; 

The  noble  steeds,  and  harness  bright, 
And  gallant  lord,  and  stalwart  knight, 
In  rich  array, 

Where  shall  we  seek  them  now  ? Alas ! 
Like  the  bright  dewdrops  on  the  grass, 
They  passed  away. 

His  brother,  too,  whose  factious  zeal 
Usurped  the  sceptre  of  Castile, 

Unskilled  to  reign  ; 

What  a gay,  brilliant  court  had  he, 
When  all  the  flower  of  chivalry 
Was  in  his  train  ! 

But  he  was  mortal  ; and  the  breath, 
That  flamed  from  the  hot  forge  of  Death, 
Blasted  his  years  ; 

Judgment  of  God  ! that  flame  by  thee, 
When  raging  fierce  and  fearfully, 

Was  quenched  in  tears  ! 

Spain’s  haughty  Constable,  the  true 
And  gallant  Master,  whom  we  knew 
Most  loved  of  all  ; 

Breathe  not  a whisper  of  his  pride, 

He  on  the  gloomy  scaffold  died, 

Ignoble  fall  ! 

The  countless  treasures  of  his  care, 

His  villages  and  villas  fair, 

His  mighty  power, 

What  were  they  all  but  grief  and  shame, 
Tears  and  a broken  heart,  when  came 
The  parting  hour  ? 

His  other  brothers,  proud  and  high, 
Masters,  who,  in  prosperity, 

Might  rival  kings  ; 


14 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Who  made  the  bravest  and  the  best 
The  bondsmen  of  their  high  behest, 
Their  underlings  ; 

What  was  their  prosperous  estate, 

When  high  exalted  and  elate 
With  power  and  pride  ? 

What,  but  a transient  gleam  of  light, 

A flame,  which,  glaring  at  its  height, 
Grew  dim  and  died  ? 

So  many  a duke  of  royal  name, 

Marquis  and  count  of  spotless  fame, 

And  baron  brave, 

That  might  the  sword  of  empire  wield, 
All  these,  0 Death,  hast  thou  concealed 
In  the  dark  grave  ! 

Their  deeds  of  mercy  and  of  arms, 

In  peaceful  days,  or  war’s  alarms, 

When  thou  dost  show, 

0 Death,  thy  stern  and  angry  face, 

One  stroke  of  thy  all-powerful  mace 
Can  overthrow. 

Unnumbered  hosts,  that  threaten  nigh, 
Pennon  and  standard  flaunting  high, 
And  flag  displayed  ; 

High  battlements  intrenched  around, 
Bastion,  and  moated  wall,  and  mound, 
And  palisade, 

And  covered  trench,  secure  and  deep, 

All  these  cannot  one  victim  keep, 

0 Death,  from  thee, 

When  thou  dost  battle  in  thy  wrath, 
And  thy  strong  shafts  pursue  their  path 
Unerringly. 

O World  ! so  few  the  years  we  live, 
Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 
Were  life  indeed  ! 

Alas  ! thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 

Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 
The  soul  is  freed. 

Our  days  are  covered  o’er  with  grief, 
And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 
Veil  all  in  gloom  ; 

Left  desolate  of  real  good, 

Within  this  cheerless  solitude 
No  pleasures  bloom. 

Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 

And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 

Or  dark  despair  ; 

Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 

That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 


Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a groan, 
By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 

And  weary  hearts  ; 

Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 

But  with  a lingering  step  and  slow 
Its  form  departs. 

And  he,  the  good  man’s  shield  and  shade, 
To  whom  all  hearts  their  homage  paid, 
As  Virtue’s  son, 

Roderic  Manrique,  he  whose  name 
Is  written  on  the  scroll  of  Fame, 

Spain’s  champion  ; 

His  signal  deeds  and  prowess  high 
Demand  no  pompous  eulogy, 

Ye  saw  his  deeds  ! 

Why  should  their  praise  in  verse  be 
sung  ? 

The  name,  that  dwells  on  every  tongue, 
No  minstrel  needs. 

To  friends  a friend  ; how  kind  to  all 
The  vassals  of  this  ancient  hall 
And  feudal  fief ! 

To  foes  how  stern  a foe  was  he  ! 

And  to  the  valiant  and  the  free 
How  brave  a chief  ! 

What  prudence  with  the  old  and  wise  : 
What  grace  in  youthful  gayeties  ; 

In  all  how  sage  ! 

Benignant  to  the  serf  and  slave, 

He  showed  the  base  and  falsely  brave 
A lion’s  rage. 

His  was  Octavian’s  prosperous  star, 

The  rush  of  Caesar’s  conquering  car 
At  battle’s  call ; 

His,  Scipio’s  virtue  ; his,  the  skill 
And  the  indomitable  will 
Of  Hannibal. 

His  was  a Trajan’s  goodness,  his 
A Titus’  noble  charities 
And  righteous  laws ; 

The  arm  of  Hector,  and  the  might 
Of  Tully,  to  maintain  the  right 
In  truth’s  just  cause  ; 

The  clemency  of  Antonine, 

Aurelius’  countenance  divine, 

Firm,  gentle,  still ; 

The  eloquence  of  Adrian, 

And  Theodosius’  love  to  man, 

And  generous  will  > 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 


15 


In  tented  field  and  bloody  fray, 

An  Alexander’s  vigorous  sway 
And  stern  command  ; 

The  faith  of  Constantine  ; ay,  more, 

The  fervent  love  Camillus  bore 
His  native  land. 

He  left  no  well- filled  treasury. 

He  heaped  no  pile  of  riches  high, 

Nor  massive  plate  ; 

Pie  fought  the  Moors,  and,  in  their  fall, 
City  and  tower  and  castled  wall 
Were  his  estate. 

Upon  the  hard-fought  battle-ground, 
Brave  steeds  and  gallant  riders  found 
A common  grave  ; 

And  there  the  warrior’s  hand  did  gain 
The  rents,  and  the  long  vassal  train, 
That  conquest  gave. 

And  if,  of  old,  his  halls  displayed 
The  honored  and  exalted  grade 
His  worth  had  gained, 

So,  in  the  dark,  disastrous  hour, 
Brothers  and  bondsmen  of  his  power 
His  hand  sustained. 

After  high  deeds,  not  left  untold, 

In  the  stern  warfare,  which,  of  old 
*T  was  his  to  share, 

Such  noble  leagues  he  made,  that  more 
And  fairer  regions,  than  before, 

His  guerdon  were. 

These  are  the  records,  half  effaced, 
Which,  with  the  hand  of  youth,  he  traced 
On  history’s  page  ; 

But  with  fresh  victories  he  drew 
Each  fading  character  anew 
In  his  old  age. 

By  his  unrivalled  skill,  by  great 
And  veteran  service  to  the  state, 

By  worth  adored, 

He  stood,  in  his  high  dignity, 

The  proudest  knight  of  chivalry, 

Knight  of  the  Sword. 

He  found  his  cities  and  domains 
Beneath  a tyrant’s  galling  chains 
And  cruel  power ; 

But,  by  fierce  battle  and  blockade, 

Soon  his  own  banner  was  displayed 
From  every  tower> 

By  the  tried  valor  of  his  hand, 

His  monarch  and  his  native  land 
Were  nobly  served  ; 


Let  Portugal  repeat  the  story, 

And  proud  Castile,  who  shared  the  glory 
His  arms  deserved. 

And  when  so  oft,  for  weal  or  woe, 

His  life  upon  the  fatal  throw 
Had  been  cast  down  ; 

AVhen  he  had  served,  with  patriot  zeal, 
Beneath  the  banner  of  Castile, 

His  sovereign’s  crown  ; 

And  done  such  deeds  of  valor  strong, 
That  neither  history  nor  song 
Can  count  them  all ; 

Then,  on  Ocana’s  castled  rock, 

Death  at  his  portal  came  to  knock, 

With  sudden  call, 

Saying,  4 4 Good  Cavalier,  prepare 
To  leave  this  world  of  toil  and  care 
With  joyful  mien  ; 

Let  thy  strong  heart  of  steel  this  day 
Put  on  its  armor  for  the  fray, 

The  closing  scene. 

44  Since  thou  hast  been,  in  battle -strife, 
So  prodigal  of  health  and  life, 

For  earthly  fame. 

Let  virtue  nerve  thy  heart  again ; 

Loud  on  the  last  stern  battle-plain 
They  call  thy  name. 

44  Think  not  the  struggle  that  draws 
near 

Too  terrible  for  man,  nor  fear 
To  meet  the  foe  ; 

Nor  let  thy  noble  spirit  grieve, 

Its  life  of  glorious  fame  to  leave 
On  earth  below. 

4 4 A life  of  honor  and  of  worth 
Has  no  eternity  on  earth, 

’T  is  but  a name  ; 

And  yet  its  glory  far  exceeds 

That  base  and  sensual  life,  which  leads 

To  want  and  shame. 

44  The  eternal  life,  beyond  the  sky, 
Wealth  cannot  purchase,  nor  the  high 
And  proud  estate  ; 

The  soul  in  dalliance  laid,  the  spirit 
Corrupt  with  sin,  shall  not  inherit 
A joy  so  great. 

44  But  the  good  monk,  in  cloistered  cell. 
Shall  gain  it  by  his  book  and  bell, 

His  prayers  and  tears  ; 


16 


TRANSLATIONS. 


And  the  brave  knight,  whose  arm  en- 
dures 

Fierce  battle,  and  against  the  Moors 
His  standard  rears. 

“And  thou,  brave  knight,  whose  hand 
has  poured 

The  life-blood  of  the  Pagan  horde 
O’er  all  the  land, 

In  heaven  shalt  thou  receive,  at  length, 
The  guerdon  of  thine  earthly  strength 
And  dauntless  hand. 

“ Cheered  onward  by  this  promise  sure, 
Strong  in  the  faith  entire  and  pure 
Thou  dost  profess, 

Depart,  thy  hope  is  certainty, 

The  third,  the  better  life  on  high 
Shalt  thou  possess.” 

“ 0 Death,  no  more,  no  more  delay  ; 

My  spirit  longs  to  flee  away, 

And  be  at  rest  ; 

The  will  of  Heaven  my  will  shall  be, 

I bow  to  the  divine  decree, 

To  God’s  behest. 

“ My  soul  is  ready  to  depart. 

No  thought  rebels,  the  obedient  heart 
Breathes  forth  no  sigh  ; 

The  wish  on  earth  to  linger  still 
Were  vain,  when  ’t  is  God’s  sovereign 
will 

That  we  shall  die. 

“ 0 thou,  that  for  our  sins  didst  take 
A human  form,  and  humbly  make 
Thy  home  on  earth  ; 

Thou,  that  to  thy  divinity 
A human  nature  didst  ally 
By  mortal  birth, 

“ And  in  that  form  didst  suffer  here 
Torment,  and  agony,  and  fear, 

So  patiently  ; 

By  thy  redeeming  grace  alone, 

And  not  for  merits  of  my  own, 

O,  pardon  me  ! ” 

As  thus  the  dying  warrior  prayed, 
Without  one  gathering  mist  or  shade 
Upon  his  mind  ; 

Encircled  by  his  family, 

Watched  by  affection’s  gentle  eye 
So  soft  and  kind  ; 

His  soul  to  Him,  who  gave  it,  rose  ; 

God  lead  it  to  its  long  repose, 

Its  glorious  rest ! 


And,  though  the  warrior’s  sun  has  set, 
Its  light  shall  linger  round  us  yet, 
Bright,  radiant,  blest. 


THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  LOPE  DE  YEGA. 

Shepherd  ! who  with  thine  amorous, 
sylvan  song 

Hast  broken  the  slumber  that  encom- 
j)assed  me, 

Who  mad’st  thy  crook  from  the  ac- 
cursed tree, 

On  which  thy  powerful  arms  were 
stretched  so  long  ! 

Lead  me  to  mercy’s  ever-flowing  foun- 
tains ; 

For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and 
guide  shalt  be  ; 

I will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 

Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  moun- 
tains. 

Hear,  Shepherd  ! thou  who  for  thy  flock 
art  dying, 

0,  wash  away  these  scarlet  sins,  for 
thou 

Rejoicest  at  the  contrite  sinner’s  vow. 

0,  wait  ! to  thee  my  weary  soul  is  crying, 

Wait  for  me  ! Yet  why  ask  it,  when 

I see, 

With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  thou  ’rt 
waiting  still  for  me  ! 


TO-MORROW. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  LOPE  DE  VEGA. 

Lord,  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing 
care, 

Thou  didst  seek  after  me,  that  thou 
didst  wait, 

Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  before  my 
gate, 

And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter 
there  ? 

0 strange  delusion  ! that  I did  not  greet 

Thy  blest  approach,  and  0,  to  Heaven 
how  lost, 

If  my  ingratitude’s  unkindly  frost 

Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon 
thy  feet. 

How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 

“Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and 
thou  shalt  see 


THE  CELESTIAL  PILOT. 


17 


How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait 
for  thee  ! ” 

And,  0 ! how  often  to  that  voice  of  sor- 
row, 

“ To-morrow  we  will  open,”  I replied, 
And  when  the  morrow  came  1 an- 
swered still,  “To-morrow.” 


THE  NATIVE  LAND. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  FRANCISCO  DE 
ALDANA. 

Clear  fount  of  light ! my  native  land 
on  high, 

Bright  with  a glory  that  shall  never 
fade  ! 

Mansion  of  truth  ! without  a veil  or 
shade, 

Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit’s  eye. 

There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal 
essence, 

Gasping  no  longer  for  life’s  feeble 
breath  ; 

But,  sentinelled  in  heaven,  its  glori- 
ous presence 

With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears 
not,  death. 

Beloved  country  ! banished  from  thy 
shore, 

A stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay, 

The  exiled  spirit  weeps  and  sighs  for 
thee  ! 

Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I 
adore 

Direct,  and  the  sure  promise  cheers 
the  way, 

That,  whither  love  aspires,  there  shall 
my  dwelling  be. 

THE  IMAGE  OF  GOD. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  FRANCISCO  DE 
ALDANA. 

0 Lord  ! who  seest,  from  yon  starrv 
height, 

Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 

Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see 
how  fast 

The  world  obscures  in  me  what  once 
was  bright  ! 

Eternal  Sun  ! the  warmth  which  thou 
hast  given, 

To  cheer  life’s  flowery  April,  fast  de- 
cays ; 


Yet,  in  the  hoary  winter  of  my  days, 
Forever  green  shall  be  my  trust  in 
Heaven. 

Celestial  King  ! 0 let  thy  presence  pass 
Before  my  spirit,  and  an  image  fair 
Shall  meet  that  look  of  mercy  from  on 
high, 

As  the  reflected  image  in  a glass 

Doth  meet  the  look  of  him  who  seeks 
it  there, 

And  owes  its  being  to  the  gazer’s  eye. 


THE  BROOK. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH. 

Laugh  of  the  mountain  ! — lyre  of  bird 
and  tree  ! 

Pomp  of  the  meadow  ! mirror  of  the 
morn  ! 

The  soul  of  April,  unto  whom  are 
born 

The  rose  and  jessamine,  leaps  wild  in 
thee  ! 

Although,  where’er  thy  devious  current 
strays, 

The  lap  of  earth  with  gold  and  silver 
teems, 

To  me  thy  clear  proceeding  brighter 
seems 

Than  golden  sands,  that  charm  each 
shepherd’s  gaze. 

How  without  guile  thy  bosom,  all  trans- 
parent 

As  the  pure  crystal,  lets  the  curious 
eye 

Thy  secrets  scan,  thy  smooth,  round 
pebbles  count  ! 

Plow,  without  malice  murmuring,  glides 
thy  current  ! 

0 sweet  simplicity  of  days  gone  by! 

Thou  shun’st  the  haunts  of  man,  to 
dwell  in  limpid  fount ! 


THE  CELESTIAL  PILOT. 

FROM  DANTE.  PURGATORIO,  II. 

And  now,  behold  ! as  at  the  approach  of 
morning, 

Through  the  gross  vapors,  Mars  grows 
fiery  red 

Down  in  the  west  upon  the  ocean  floor. 
Appeared  to  me,  — may  I again  behold 
it  ! 


2 


18 


TRANSLATIONS. 


A light  along  the  sea,  so  swiftly  com- 
ing, 

Its  motion  by  no  flight  of  wing  is 
equalled. 

And  when  therefrom  I had  withdrawn  a 
little 

Mine  eyes,  that  I might  question  my 
conductor, 

Again  I saw  it  brighter  grown  and 
larger. 

Thereafter,  on  all  sides  of  it,  appeared 

1 knew  not  what  of  white,  and  under- 
neath, 

Little  by  little,  there  came  forth  an- 
other. 

My  master  yet  had  uttered  not  a word, 

While  the  first  whiteness  into  wings 
unfolded ; 

But,  when  he  clearly  recognized  the 
pilot, 

He  cried  aloud:  “Quick,  quick,  and 
bow  the  knee  ! 

Behold  the  Angel  of  God  ! fold  up  thy 
hands ! 

Henceforward  shalt  thou  see  such 
officers  ! 

See,  how  he  scorns  all  human  arguments, 

So  that  no  oar  he  wants,  nor  other  sail 

Than  his  own  wings,  between  so  dis- 
tant shores  ! 

See,  how  he  holds  them,  pointed  straight 
to  heaven, 

Fanning  the  air  with  the  eternal  pin- 
ions, 

That  do  not  moult  themselves  like 
mortal  hair  ! ” 

And  then,  as  nearer  and  more  near  us 
came 

The  Bird  of  Heaven,  more  glorious  he 
appeared, 

So  that  the  eye  could  not  sustain  his 
presence, 

But  down  I cast  it  ; and  he  came  to 
shore 

With  a small  vessel,  gliding  swift  and 
light, 

So  that  the  water  swallowed  naught 
thereof. 

Upon  the  stern  stood  the  Celestial  Pilot  ! 

Beatitude  seemed  written  in  his  face  ! 

And  more  than  a hundred  spirits  sat 
within. 

“ In  exitu  Israel  de  JEgypto  ! ” 

Thus  sang  they  all  together  in  one 
voice, 

With  whatso  in  that  Psalm  is  after 
written. 


Then  made  he  sign  of  holy  rood  upon 
them, 

Whereat  all  cast  themselves  upon  the 
shore, 

And  he  departed  swiftly  as  he  came. 


THE  TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE. 

FJtOM  DANTE.  PURGATORIO,  XXVIII. 

Longing  already  to  search  in  and  round 
The  heavenly  forest,  dense  and  living, 
green, 

Which  tempered  to  the  eyes  the  new, 
born  day, 

Withouten  more  delay  I left  the  bank, 
Crossing  the  level  country  slowly, 
slowly, 

Over  the  soil,  that  everywhere  breathed 
fragrance. 

A gently-breathing  air,  that  no  muta- 
tion 

Plad  in  itself,  smote  me  upon  the  fore- 
head, 

No  heavier  blow,  than  of  a pleasant 
breeze, 

Whereat  the  tremulous  branches  readily 
Did  all  of  them  bow  downward  to- 
wards that  side 

Where  its  first  shadow  casts  the  Holy 
Mountain  ; 

Yet  not  from  their  upright  direction  bent 
So  that  the  little  birds  upon  their  tops 
Should  cease  the  practice  of  their  tune- 
ful art  ; 

But,  with  full-throated  joy,  the  hours  of 
prime 

Singing  received  they  in  the  midst  of 
foliage 

That  made  monotonous  burden  to 
their  rhymes, 

Even  as  from  branch  to  branch  it  gath- 
ering swells, 

Through  the  pine  forests  on  the  shore 
of  Chiassi, 

When  JEolus  unlooses  the  Sirocco. 

Already  my  slow  steps  had  led  me  on 
Into  the  ancient  wood  so  far,  that  I 
Could  see  no  more  the  place  where  I 
had  entered. 

And  lo  ! my  further  course  cut  off  a 
river, 

Which,  tow’rds  the  left  hand,  with  its 
little  waves, 

Bent  down  the  grass,  that  on  its  mar- 
gin sprang. 


SPRING. 


19 


All  waters  that  on  earth  most  limpid 
are, 

Would  seem  to  have  within  them- 
selves some  mixture, 

Compared  with  that,  which  nothing 
doth  conceal, 

Although  it  moves  on  with  a brown, 
brown  current, 

Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the 
moon. 


BEATRICE. 

FROM  DANTE.  PURGATORIO,  XXX. , XXXI. 

Even  as  the  Blessed,  at  the  final  sum- 
mons, 

Shall  rise  up  quickened,  each  one  from 
his  grave, 

Wearing  again  the  garments  of  the 
flesh, 

So,  upon  that  celestial  chariot, 

A hundred  rose  ad  vocem  tanti  senis, 

Ministers  and  messengers  of  life  eter- 
nal. 

They  all  were  saying,  ‘ ‘ Benedictus  qui 
venis ,” 

And  scattering  flowers  above  and  round 
about, 

“ Manibus  o date  lilia  plenis.” 

Oft  have  I -seen,  at  the  approach  of  day, 

The  orient  sky  all  stained  with  roseate 
hues. 

And  the  other  heaven  with  light  serene 
adorned, 

And  the  sun’s  face  uprising,  over- 
shadowed, 

So  that,  by  temperate  influence  of 
vapors, 

The  eye  sustained  his  aspect  for  long 
while  ; 

Thus  in  the  bosom  of  a cloud  of  flowers, 

Which  from  those  hands  angelic  were 
thrown  up, 

And  down  descended  inside  and  with- 
out, 

With  crown  of  olive  o’er  a snow-white 
veil, 

Appeared  a lady,  under  a green  man- 
tle, 

Vested  in  colors  of  the  living  flame. 

Even  as  the  snow,  among  the  living 
rafters 

Upon  the  back  of  Italy,  congeals, 


Blown  on  and  beaten  by  Sclavonian 
winds, 

And  then,  dissolving,  filters  through  it- 
self, 

Whene’er  the  land,  that  loses  shadow, 
breathes, 

Like  as  a taper  melts  before  a fire. 

Even  such  I was,  without  a sigh  or  tear, 

Before  the  song  of  those  who  chime 
forever 

After  the  chiming  of  the  eternal 
spheres  ; 

But,  when  I heard  in  those  sweet  melo- 
dies 

Compassion  for  me,  more  than  had 
they  said, 

“ 0 wherefore,  lady,  dost  thou  thus 
consume  him  ? ” 

The  ice,  that  was  about  my  heart  con- 
gealed, 

To  air  and  water  changed,  and,  in  my 
anguish, 

Through  lips  and  eyes  came  gushing 
from  my  breast. 

Confusion  and  dismay,  together  mingled, 

Forced  such  a feeble  “Yes  ! ” out  of 
my  mouth, 

To  understand  it  one  had  need  of 
sight. 

Even  as  a cross-bow  breaks,  when  ’t  is 
discharged, 

Too  tensely  drawn  the  bow-string  and 
the  bow, 

And  with  less  force  the  arrow  hits  the 
mark  ; 

So  I gave  way  beneath  this  heavy  burden, 

Gushing  forth  into  bitter  tears  and 
sighs, 

And  the  voice,  fainting,  flagged  upon 
its  passage. 


SPRING. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  CHARLES 

d’orleans. 

XV.  CENTURY. 

Gentle  Spring  ! in  sunshine  clad, 

Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display  ! 
For  Winter  maketh  the  light  heart  sad, 
And  thou,  thou  makest  the  sad  heart 
T gay. 

He  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy 
train, 


20 


TRANSLATIONS. 


The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind, 
and  the  rain  ; 

And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in 
fear, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  giveth  the  fields  and  the  trees, 
so  old, 

Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow  ; 

And  the  rain,  it  rainetlr  so  fast  and  cold, 

We  must  cower  over  the  embers  low  ; 

And,  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and 
weather, 

Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 

But  the  storm  retires,  and  the  sky  grows 
clear, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy 
sky 

Wrap  him  round  with  a mantle  of 
cloud  ; 

But,  Heaven  be  praised,  thy  step  is 
nigh; 

Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful 
shroud, 

And  the  earth  looks  bright,  and  Winter 
surly, 

Who  has  toiled  for  naught  both  late  and 
early, 

Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 


THE  CHILD  ASLEEP. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

Sweet  babe  ! true  portrait  of  thy  father’s 
face, 

Sleep  on  the  bosom  that  thy  lips  have 
pressed  ! 

Sleep,  little  one  ; and  closely,  gently 
place 

Thy  drowsy  eyelid  on  thy  mother’s 
breast. 

Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 

Soft  sleep  shall  come,  that  cometh  not 
to  me  ! 

I watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend ; 

’T  is  sweet  to  watch  for  thee,  alone  for 
thee  ! 

His  arms  fall  down  ; sleep  sits  upon  his 
brow  ; 

His  eye  is  closed ; he  sleeps,  nor  dreams 
of  harm. 


Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple’s  ruddy 
glow, 

Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  Death’s 
cold  arm  ? 

Awake,  my  boy  ! I tremble  with  af- 
fright ! 

Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought  ! 
Unclose 

Thine  eye  but  for  one  moment  on  the 
light ! 

Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me 
repose  ! 

Sweet  error  ! he  but  slept,  I breathe 
again  ; 

Come,  gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of 
sleep  beguile  ! 

0,  when  shall  he,  for  whom  I sigh  in 
vain, 

Beside  me  watch  to  see  thy  waking 
smile  ? 


THE  GRAVE. 

FROM  THE  ANGLO-SAXON. 

For  thee  was  a house  built 
Ere  thou  wast  born, 

For  thee  was  a mould  meant 
Ere  thou  of  mother  earnest. 
But  it  is  not  made  ready, 
Nor  its  depth  measured, 

Nor  is  it  seen 
How  long  it  shall  be. 

Now  I bring  thee 
Where  thou  shalt  be  ; 

Now  I shall  measure  thee, 
And  the  mould  afterwards. 

Thy  house  is  not 
Highly  timbered, 

It  is  unhigh  and  low ; 

When  thou  art  therein, 

The  heel-ways  are  low, 

The  side-ways  unhigh. 

The  roof  is  built 
Thy  breast  full  nigh, 

So  thou  shalt  in  mould 
Dwell  full  cold, 

Dimly  and  dark. 

Doorless  is  that  house, 
And  dark  it  is  within  ; 
There  thou  art  fast  detained 
And  Death  hath  the  key. 


THE  HAPPIEST  LAND. 


21 


Loathsome  is  that  earth-house, 
And  grim  within  to  dwell. 
There  thou  shalt  dwell, 

And  worms  shall  divide  thee. 

Thus  thou  art  laid, 

And  leavest  thy  friends 
Thou  hast  no  friend, 

Who  will  come  to  thee, 

Who  will  ever  see 

How  that  house  pleaseth  thee  ; 

Who  will  ever  open 

The  door  for  thee, 

And  descend  after  thee  ; 

For  soon  thou  art  loathsome 
And  hateful  to  see. 


KING  CHRISTIAN. 

A NATIONAL  SONG  OF  DENMARK. 
✓ROM  THE  DANISH  OF  JOHANNES  EVALD. 

King  Christian  stood  by  the  lofty  mast 
In  mist  and  smoke  ; 

His  sword  was  hammering  so  fast, 
Through  Gothic  helm  and  brain  it 
passed ; 

Then  sank  each  hostile  hulk  and  mast, 
In  mist  and  smoke. 

44  Fly  ! ” shouted  they,  “fly,  he  who  can! 
Who  braves  of  Denmark’s  Christian 
The  stroke  ? ” 

Nils  Juel  gave  heed  to  the  tempest’s  roar, 
Now'is  the  hour  ! 

He  hoisted  his  blood-red  flag  once  more, 
And  smote  upon  the  foe  full  sore, 

And  shouted  loud,  through  the  tempest’s 
roar, 

“Now  is  the  hour  ! ” 

“ Fly  ! ” shouted  they,  “ for  shelter  fly  ! 
Of  Denmark’s  Juel  who  can  defy 
The  power  ? ” 

North  Sea  ! a glimpse  of  Wessel  rent 
Thy  murky  sky  ! 

Then  champions  to  thine  arms  were  sent ; 
Terror  and  Death  glared  where  he  went ; 
From  the  waves  was  heard  a wail,  that 
rent 

Thy  murky  sky  ! 

From  Denmark,  thunders  Tordenskiol’, 
Let  each  to  Heaven  commend  his  soul, 
And  fly  ! 


i Path  of  the  Dane  to  fame  and  might ! 
Dark -rolling  wave  ! 

Receive  thy  friend*  who,  scorning  flight, 
Goes  to  meet  danger  with  despite, 
Proudly  as  thou  the  tempest’s  might. 
Dark-rolling  wave  ! 

And  amid  pleasures  and  alarms, 

And  war  and  victory,  be  thine  arms 
My  grave ! 


THE  HAPPIEST  LAND. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

There  sat  one  day  in  quiet, 

By  an  alehouse  on  the  Rhine, 

Four  hale  and  hearty  fellows, 

And  drank  the  precious  wine. 

The  landlord’s  daughter  filled  their  cups, 
Around  the  rustic  board  ; 

Then  sat  they  all  so  calm  and  still, 

And  spake  not  one  rude  word. 

But,  when  the  maid  departed, 

A Swabian  raised  his  hand, 

And  cried,  all  hot  and  flushed  with  wine, 
4 4 Long  live  the  Swabian  land  ! 

“ The  greatest  kingdom  upon  earth 
Cannot  with  that  compare  ; 

With  all  the  stout  and  hardy  men 
And  the  nut-brown  maidens  there.” 

44  Ha  ! ” cried  a Saxon,  laughing, 

And  dashed  his  beard  with  wine  ; 

44 1 had  rather  live  in  Lapland, 

Than  that  Swabian  land  of  thine  ! 

44  The  goodliest  land  on  all  this  earth, 

It  is  the  Saxon  land  ! 

There  have  I as  many  maidens 
As  fingers  on  this  hand  ! ” 

44  Hold  your  tongues  ! both  Swabian 
and  Saxon  ! ” 

A bold  Bohemian  cries  ; 

44  If  there ’s  a heaven  upon  this  earth, 
In  Bohemia  it  lies. 

4 4 There  the  tailor  blows  the  flute, 

And  the  cobbler  blows  the  horn, 

And  the  miner  blows  the  bugle, 

Over  mountain  gorge  and  bourn.’ 


22 


TRANSLATIONS. 


And  then  the  landlord’s  daughter 
Up  to  heaven  raised  her  hand, 

And  said,  “Ye  may  no  more  contend,  — 
There  lies  the  happiest  land  ! ” 

THE  WAVE. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  TIEDGE. 

“Whither,  thou  turbid  wave  ? 
Whither,  with  so  much  haste, 

As  if  a thief  wert  thou  ? ” 

“ I am  the  Wave  of  Life, 

Stained  with  my  margin’s  dust ; 

From  the  struggle  and  the  strife 
Of  the  narrow  stream  I fly 
To  the  Sea’s  immensity, 

To  wash  from  me  the  slime 
Of  the  muddy  banks  of  Time.” 

THE  DEAD. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  STOCKMANN. 

How  they  so  softly  rest. 

All  they  the  holy  ones, 

Unto  whose  dwelling-place 
blow  doth  my  soul  draw  near ! 

How  they  so  softly  rest, 

All  in  their  silent  graves, 

Deep  to  corruption 
Slowly  down-sinking  ! 

And  they  no  longer  weep, 

Here,  where  complaint  is  still ! 

And  they  no  longer  feel, 

Here,  where  all  gladness  flies  ! 

And,  by  the  cypresses 
Softly  o’ershadowed, 

Until  the  Angel 

Calls  them,  they  slumber  ! 

THE  BIRD  AND  THE  SHIP. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MULLER. 

‘‘The  rivers  rush  into  the  sea, 

By  castle  and  town  they  go  ; 

The  winds  behind  them  merrily 
Their  noisy  trumpets  blow. 

“ The  clouds  are  passing  far  and  high, 
We  little  birds  in  them  play  ; 

And  everything,  that  can  sing  and  fly, 
Goes  with  us,  and  far  away. 


“I  greet  thee,  bonny  boat ! Whither, 
or  whence, 

With  thy  fluttering  golden  band?”  — • 
“ I greet  thee,  little  bird  ! To  the  wide 
sea 

I haste  from  the  narrow  land. 

“Full  and  swollen  is  every  sail ; 

I see  no  longer  a hill, 

I have  trusted  all  to  the  sounding  gale, 
And  it  will  not  let  me  stand  still. 

“And  wilt  thou,  little  bird,  go  with  us? 
Thou  mayest  stand  on  the  mainmast 
tall, 

For  full  to  sinking  is  my  house 
With  merry  companions  all.”  — 

“ I need  not  and  seek  not  company, 
Bonny  boat,  I can  sing  all  alone ; 

For  the  mainmast  tall  too  heavy  am  I, 
Bonny  boat,  I have  wings  of  my  own. 

“High  over  the  sails,  high  over  the 
mast, 

Who  shall  gainsay  these  joys  ? 

When  thy  merry  companions  are  still,  at 
last, 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  sound  of  my 
voice. 

“Who  neither  may  rest,  nor  listen  may, 
God  bless  them  every  one  ! 

I dart  away,  in  the  bright  blue  day, 
And  the  golden  fields  of  the  sun. 

“Thus  do  I sing  my  weary  song, 
Wherever  the  four  winds  blow  ; 

And  this  same  song,  my  whole  life  long, 
Neither  Poet  nor  Printer  may  know.” 


WHITHER? 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MULLER. 

I heard  a brooklet  gushing 
From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 
Down  into  the  valley  rushing, 

So  fresh  and  wondrous  clear. 

I know  not  what  came  o’er  me, 
Nor  who  the  counsel  gave  ; 

But  I must  hasten  downward, 

All  with  my  pilgrim-stave  ; 

Downward,  and  ever  farther, 

And  ever  the  brook  beside  ; 


THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA. 


23 


And  ever  fresher  murmured, 

And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 

Is  this  the  way  I was  going  ? 

Whither,  0 brooklet,  say ! 

Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  murmur, 
Murmured  my  senses  away. 

What  do  I say  of  a murmur  ? 

That  can  no  murmur  be  ; 

’T  is  the  water-nymphs,  that  are  singing 
Their  roundelays  under  me. 

Let  them  sing,  my  friend,  let  them 
murmur, 

And  wander  merrily  near  ; 

The  wheels  of  a mill  are  going 
In  every  brooklet  clear. 


BEWARE  ! 

FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

I know  a maiden  fair  to  see, 

Take  care  ! 

She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be, 
Beware  ! Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 

She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown, 
Take  care  ! 

She  gives  a side-glance  and  looks  down, 
Beware  ! Beware ! 

Trust  her  not, 

She  is  fooling  thee ! 

And  she  has  hair  of  a golden  hue, 

Take  care  ! 

And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  true, 
Beware ! Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 

She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  a bosom  as  white  as  snow, 

Take  care  ! 

She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show, 
Beware  ! Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 

She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  gives  thee  a garland  woven  fair, 
Take  care  ! 

It  is  a fool’s-cap  for  thee  to  wear, 

Beware  ! Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not, 

She  is  fooling  thee  ! 


SONG  OF  THE  BELL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

Bell  ! thou  soundest  merrily, 
When  the  bridal  party 
To  the  church  doth  hie ! 

Bell  ! thou  soundest  solemnly, 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning, 
Fields  deserted  lie  ! 

Bell  ! thou  soundest  merrily  ; 
Tellest  thou  at  evening, 
Bed-time  draweth  nigh ! 

Bell ! thou  soundest  mournfully, 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 
Parting  hath  gone  by  ! 

Say  ! how  canst  thou  mourn  ? 
How  canst  thou  rejoice  ? 

Thou  art  but  metal  dull ! 

And  yet  all  our  sorrowings, 

And  all  our  rejoicings, 

Thou  dost  feel  them  all ! 

God  hath  wonders  many, 

Which  we  cannot  fathom, 

Placed  within  thy  form  ! 
When  the  heart  is  sinking, 

Thou  alone  canst  raise  it, 
Trembling  in  the  storm  ! 


THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

“ Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 
That  Castle  by  the  Sea  ? 

Golden  and  red  above  it 
The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

“ And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 
To  the  mirrored  wave  below  ; 

And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening’s  crimson  glow.” 

‘ 4 Well  have  I seen  that  castle, 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea, 

And  the  moon  above  it  standing, 
And  the  mist  rise  solemnly.” 

“ The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 
Had  they  a merry  chime  ? 


24 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  cham- 
bers, 

The  harp  and  the  minstrel’s  rhyme  ? ” 

“ The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 
They  rested  quietly, 

But  I heard  on  the  gale  a sound  of  wail, 
And  tears  came  to  mine  eye.” 

* ‘ And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  King  and  his  royal  bride  ? 

And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles  ? 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride  ? 

“ Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 

A beauteous  maiden  there  ? 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 
Beaming  with  golden  hair  ? ” 

4 ‘Well  saw  I the  ancient  parents, 
Without  the  crown  of  pride  ; 

They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe, 
No  maiden  was  by  their  side  ! ” 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

’T  was  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 
When  woods  and  fields  put  off  all  sad- 
ness. 

Thus  began  the  King  and  spake  : 

“ So  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  Hofburg’s  walls, 

A luxuriant  Spring  shall  break.” 

Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly, 

Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly, 
From  balcony  the  King  looked  on  ; 

In  the  play  of  spears, 

Fell  all  the  cavaliers, 

Before  the  monarch’s  stalwart  son. 

To  the  barrier  of  the  fight 
Rode  at  last  a sable  Knight. 

‘ ‘ Sir  Knight ! your  name  and  scutch- 
eon, sa y ! ” 

“Should  I speak  it  here, 

Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear  ; 

I am  a Prince  of  mighty  sway  ! ” 

When  he  rode  into  the  lists, 

The  arch  of  heaven  grew  black  with 
mists, 

And  the  castle  ’gan  to  rock  ; 


At  the  first  blow, 

Fell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow, 

Hardly  rises  from  the  shock. 

Pipe  and  viol  call  the  dances, 

Torch  - light  through  the  high  halls 
glances  ; 

Waves  a mighty  shadow  in  ; 

With  manner  bland 
Doth  ask  the  maiden’s  hand. 

Doth  with  her  the  dance  begin. 

Danced  in  sable  iron  sark, 

Danced  a measure  weird  and  dark, 
Coldly  clasped  her  limbs  around  ; 
From  breast  and  hair 
Down  fall  from  her  the  fair 

Flowerets,  faded,  to  the  ground. 

To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  Knight  and  every  Dame  ; 

’Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  dis- 
traught, 

With  mournful  mind 
The  ancient  King  reclined, 

Gazed  at  them  in  silent  thought. 

Pale  the  children  both  did  look, 

But  the  guest  a beaker  took  : 

“ Golden  wine  will  make  you  whole  ! ” 
The  children  drank, 

Gave  many  a courteous  thank  : 

“ 0,  that  draught  was  very  cool ! ” 

Each  the  father’s  breast  embraces, 

Son  and  daughter  ; and  their  faces 
Colorless  grow  utterly  ; 

Whichever  way 

Looks  the  fear-struck  father  gray, 

He  beholds  his  children  die. 

“ Woe  ! the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth  ; 

Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  father  ! ” 
Spake  the  grim  Guest, 

From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast : 

“ Roses  in  the  spring  I gather  ! ” 


SONG  OF  THE  SILENT  LAND. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  SALIS. 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

Ah  ! who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 


25 


Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly 
gather, 

And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the 
strand. 

Who  leads  us  with  a gentle  hand 
Thither,  0 thither, 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 
Of  all  perfection  ! Tender  morning- 
visions 

Of  beauteous  souls  ! The  Future’s  pledge 
and  band  ! 

Who  in  Life’s  battle  firm  doth  stand, 
Shall  bear  Hope’s  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

0 Land  ! 0 Land  ! 

For  all  the  broken-hearted 
The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted, 
Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth 
stand 

To  lead  us  with  a gentle  hand 
To  the  land  of  the  great  Departed, 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 


L’ ENVOI. 

Ye  voices,  that  arose 
After  the  Evening’s  close, 

And  whispered  to  my  restless  heart  repose ! 

Go,  breathe  it  in  the  ear 
Of  all  who  doubt  and  fear, 

And  say  to  them,  “ Be  of  good  cheer!  ” 

Ye  sounds,  so  low  and  calm, 

That  in  the  groves  of  balm 
Seemed  to  me  like  an  angel’s  psalm  ! 

Go,  mingle  yet  once  more 

With  the  perpetual  roar 

Of  the  pine  forest,  dark  and  hoar  ! 

Tongues  of  the  dead,  not  lost, 

But  speaking  from  death’s  frost, 

Like  fiery  tongues  at  Pentecost ! 

Glimmer,  as  funeral  lamps, 

Amid  the  chills  and  damps 

Of  the  vast  plain  where  Death  encamps  ! 


BALLADS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 

“ Speak  ! speak  ! thou  fearful  guest  ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 

Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 

But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ? ” 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 

As  when  the  Northern  skies 
Gleam  in  December  ; 

And,  like  the  water’s  flow 
Under  December’s  snow, 

Came  a dull  voice  of  woe 
F rom  the  heart’s  chamber. 

“ I was  a Viking  old  ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 


No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  ! 

Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 

Else  dread  a dead  man’s  curse  ; 
For  this  I sought  thee. 

“ Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 

By  the  wild  Baltic’s  strand, 

I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon  ; 

And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 
Trembled  to  walk  on. 

“Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I the  grisly  bear, 

While  from  my  path  the  hare 
Fled  like  a shadow  ; 


26 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were- wolf  s bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 
Sang  from  the  meadow. 

* £ But  when  I older  grew, 

Joining  a corsair’s  crew, 

O’er  the  dark  sea  I flew 
With  the  marauders. 

Wild  was  the  life  we  led  ; 

Many  the  souls  that  sped, 

Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

“ Many  a wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out ; 

Often  our  midnight  shout 
Set  the  cocks  crowing, 

As  we  the  Berserk’s  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 

Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o’erflowing. 

“ Once  as  I told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 

Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender  ; 

And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 

On  that  dark  heart  of  mine  ^ 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

“ I wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 

And  in  the  forest’s  shade 
Our  vows  were  plighted. 

Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 

Like  birds  within  their  nest 
By  the  hawk  frighted. 

“ Bright  in  her  father’s  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 
Chanting  his  glory  ; 

When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I asked  his  daughter’s  hand, 

Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 
To  hear  my  story. 

“ While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 
The  sea-foam  brightly, 

So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 

Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 

From  the  deep  drinking-horn 
Blew  the  foam  lightly. 


‘ 4 She  was  a Prince’s  child, 

I but  a Viking  wild, 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 
1 was  discarded  ! 

Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew’s  flight, 

Why  did  they  leave  that  night 
Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

“ Scarce  had  I put  to  sea. 

Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 

Fairest  of  all  was  she 
Among  the  Norsemen  ! 

When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 

Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

“ Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a reed  each  mast, 

Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us  ; 

And  with  a sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 

So  that  our  foe  we  saw 
Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

“ And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  ! was  the  helmsman’s  hail, 
Death  without  quarter  ! 

Mid -ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 

Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 
Through  the  black  water  ! 

6 ‘ As  with  his  wings  aslant, 

Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 

Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 

So  toward  the  open  main, 

Beating  to  sea  again, 

Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I the  maiden. 

“ Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o’er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 
Stretching  to  leeward ; 

There  for  my  lady’s  bower 
Built  I the  lofty  tower, 

Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  seaward. 

‘ ‘ There  lived  we  many  years  ; 

Time  dried  the  maiden’s  tears  ; 

She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a mother  ; 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 


27 


Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies  ; 

Ne’er  shall  the  sun  arise 
On  such  another  ! 

“ Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 

Still  as  a stagnant  fen  ! 

Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful  ! 

In  the  vast  forest  here, 

Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 

Fell  I upon  my  spear, 

0,  death  was  grateful  ! 

“ Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 

Up  to  its  native  stars 
My  soul  ascended  ! 

There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior’s  soul, 
Skoal  ! to  the  Northland  ! skoal ! ” 
Thus  the  tale  ended. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea  ; 

And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little 
daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 

Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 
And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn 
buds, 

That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 
His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 

And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw 
did  blow 

The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sailor, 

Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 

“ I pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 

For  I fear  a hurricane. 

“Last  night,  the  moon  had  a golden 
ring, 

And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  ! ” 
The  skipper,  he  blew  a whiff  from  his 
pipe. 

And  a scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A gale  from  the  Northeast, 


The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 
The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 

She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a fright- 
ed steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable’s  length. 

‘ c Come  hither  ! come  hither  ! my  little 
daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 

For  I can  weather  the  roughest  gale 
That  ever  wind  did  blow.” 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman’s 
coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast  ; 

He  cut  a rope  from  a broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

“0  father  ! I hear  the  church -bells  ring, 
0 say,  what  may  it  be  ? ” 

“’Tis  a fog-bell  on  a rock-bound 
coast  ! ” — 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

“ 0 father  ! I hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

0 say,  what  may  it  be  ? ” 

‘ ‘ Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 
In  such  an  angry  sea  S ” 

4 4 0 father  ! I see  a gleaming  light, 

0 say,  what  may  it  be  ? ” 

But  the  father  answered  never  a word, 

A frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 
The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleam- 
ing snow 

On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and 
prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be  ; 

And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled 
the  wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and 
drear, 

Through  the  whistling  sleet  and 
snow, 

Like  a sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Tow’rds  the  reef  of  Norman’s  Woe 


28 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 
A sound  came  from  the  land  ; 

It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 
On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 
She  drifted  a dreary  wreck, 

And  a whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 
Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy 
waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 

But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 
Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board  ; 
Like  a vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 
Ho  ! ho  ! the  breakers  roared  ! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A fisherman  stood  aghast, 

To  see  the  form  of  a maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a.  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 
The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 

And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea- 
weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  ! 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a death  like  this, 
On  the  reef  of  Norman’s  Woe  ! 


THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

Of  Edenhall,  the  youthful  Lord 
Bids*  sound  the  festal  trumpet’s  call  ; 

He  rises  at  the  banquet  board, 

And  cries,  ’mid  the  drunken  revellers  all, 
“Now  bring  me  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  ! ” 

The  butler  hears  the  words  with  pain, 
The  house’s  oldest  seneschal, 

Takes  slow  from  its  silken  cloth  again 
The  drinking-glass  of  crystal  tall  ; 

They  call  it  The  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  said  the  Lord:  “This  glass  to 
praise, 

Fill  with  red  wine  from  Portugal  ! ” 


The  graybeard  with  trembling  hand 

obeys  ; 

A purple  light  shines  over  all, 

It  beams  from  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  speaks  the  Lord,  and  waves  it  light : 
“ This  glass  of  flashing  crystal  tall 
Gave  to  my  sires  the  Fountain-Sprite  ; 
She  wrote  in  it,  If  this  glass  doth  fall , 
Farewell  then , 0 Luck  of  Edenhall ! 

“ ’T  was  right  a goblet  the  Fate  should  be 
Of  the  joyous  race  of  Edenhall  ! 

Deep  draughts  drink  we  right  willingly  ; 
And  willingly  ring,  with  merry  call, 
Kling  ! klang  ! to  the  Luck  of  Eden- 
hall ! ” 

First  rings  it  deep,  and  full,  and  mild, 
Like  to  the  song  of  a nightingale  ; 

Then  like  the  roar  of  a torrent  wild  ; 
Then  mutters  at  last  like  the  thunder’s 
fall, 

The  glorious  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

“For  its  keeper  takes  a race  of  might, 
The  fragile  goblet  of  crystal  tall  ; 

It  has  lasted  longer  than  is  right  ; 

Kling  ! klang  ! — with  a harder  blow 
than  all 

Will  1 try  The  Luck  of  Edenhall  ! ” 

As  the  goblet  ringing  flies  apart, 
Suddenly  cracks  the  vaulted  hall ; 

And  through  the  rift,  the  wild  flames 
start ; 

The  guests  in  dust  are  scattered  all, 
With  the  breaking  Luck  of  Edenhall  ! 

In  storms  the  foe,  with  fire  and  sword  ; 
He  in  the  night  had  scaled  the  wTall, 
/Slain  by  the  sword  lies  the  youthful 
Lord, 

But  holds  in  his  hand  the  crystal  tall, 
The  shattered  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

On  the  morrow  the  butler  gropes  alone, 
The  graybeard  in  the  desert  hall, 

He  seeks  his  Lord’s  burnt  skeleton, 

He  seeks  in  the  dismal  ruin’s  fall 
The  shards  of  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

“The  stone  wall,”  saith  he,  “doth  fall 
aside, 

Dowm  must  the  stately  columns  fall  ; 
Glass  is  this  earth's  Luck  and  Pride  ; 

In  atoms  shall  fall  this  earthly  ball 
One  day  like  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  ! ” 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD’S  SUPPER. 


29 


THE  ELECTED  KNIGHT. 

FROM  THE  DANISH. 

Sir  Oluf  he  rideth  over  the  plain, 

Full  seven  miles  broad  and  seven  miles 
wide, 

But  never,  ah  never  can  meet  with  the 
man 

A tilt  with  him  dare  ride. 

He  saw  under  the  hillside 

A Knight  full  well  equipped  ; 

His  steed  was  black,  his  helm  was  barred ; 
He  was  riding  at  full  speed. 

He  wore  upon  his  spurs 
Twelve  little  golden  birds  ; 

Anon  he  spurred  his  steed  with  a clang, 
And  there  sat  all  the  birds  and  sang. 

He  wore  upon  his  mail 

Twelve  little  golden  wheels  ; 

Anon  in  eddies  the  wild  wind  blew, 

And  round  and  round  the  wheels  they 
flew. 

He  wore  before  his  breast 

A lance  that  was  poised  in  rest  ; 

And  T‘t  was  sharper  than  diamond-stone, 
It  made  Sir  Oluf  s heart  to  groan. 

He  wore  upon  his  helm 
A wreath  of  ruddy  gold  ; 


And  that  gave  him  the  Maidens  Three, 
The  youngest  was  fair  to  behold. 

Sir  Oluf  questioned  the  Knight  eftsoon 
If  he  were  come  from  heaven  down  ; 

“Art  thou  Christ  of  Heaven,”  quoth  he, 
“ So  will  I yield  me  unto  thee.” 

“Iam  not  Christ  the  Great, 

Thou  shalt  not  yield  thee  yet ; 

I am  an  Unknown  Knight, 

Three  modest  Maidens  have  me  be- 
dight.” 

“Art  thou  a Knight  elected, 

And  have  three  Maidens  thee  bedight ; 

So  shalt  thou  ride  a tilt  this  day, 

For  all  the  Maidens’  honor  ! ” 

The  first  tilt  they  together  rode 
They  put  their  steeds  to  the  test ; 

The  second  tilt  they  together  rode, 

They  proved  their  manhood  best. 

The  third  tilt  they  together  rode, 
Neither  of  them  would  yield  ; 

The  fourth  tilt  they  together  rode, 

They  both  fell  on  the  field. 

Now  lie  the  lords  upon  the  plain, 

And  their  blood  runs  unto  death  ; 

Now  sit  the  Maidens  in  the  high  tower, 
The  youngest  sorrows  till  death. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD’S  SUPPER. 

FROM  THE  SWEDISH  OF  BISHOP  TEGN&R. 

Pentecost,  day  of  rejoicing,  had  come.  The  church  of  the  village 
Gleaming  stood  in  the  morning’s  sheen.  On  the  spire  of  the  belfry, 
Decked  with  a brazen  cock,  the  friendly  flames  of  the  Spring-sun 
Glanced  like  the  tongues  of  fire,  beheld  by  Apostles  aforetime. 

Clear  was  the  heaven  and  blue,  and  May,  with  her  cap  crowned  with  roses, 
Stood  in  her  holiday  dress  in  the  fields,  and  the  wind  and  the  brooklet 
Murmured  gladness  and  peace,  God’s-peace  ! with  lips  rosy-tinted 
Whispered  the  race  of  the  flowers,  and  merry  on  balancing  branches 
Birds  were  singing  their  carol,  a jubilant  hymn  to  the  Highest. 

Swept  and  clean  was  the  churchyard.  Adorned  like  a leaf-woven  arbor 
Stood  its  old-fashioned  gate  ; and  within  upon  each  cross  of  iron 
Hung  was  a fragrant  garland,  new  twined  by  the  hands  of  affection. 

Even  the  dial,  that  stood  on  a mound  among  the  departed, 

(There  full  a hundred  years  had  it  stood,)  was  embellished  with  blossoms. 
Like  to  the  patriarch  hoary,  the  sage  of  his  kith  and  the  hamlet, 

Who  on  his  birthday  is  crowned  by  children  and  children’s  children, 


30 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


So  stood  the  ancient  prophet,  and  mute  with  his  pencil  of  iron 
Marked  on  the  tablet  of  stone,  and  measured  the  time  and  its  changes, 

While  all  around  at  his  feet,  an  eternity  slumbered  in  quiet. 

Also  the  church  within  was  adorned,  for  this  was  the  season 
When  the  young,  their  parents’  hope,  and  the  loved-ones  of  heaven, 

Should  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  renew  the  vows  of  their  baptism. 

Therefore  each  nook  and  corner  was  swept  and  cleaned,  and  the  dust  was 
Blown  from  the  walls  and  ceiling,  and  from  the  oil-painted  benches. 

There  stood  the  church  like  a garden  ; the  Feast  of  the  Leafy  Pavilions 
Saw  we  in  living  presentment.  From  noble  arms  on  the  church  wall 
Grew  forth  a cluster  of  leaves,  and  the  preacher’s  pulpit  of  oak-wood 
Budded  once  more  anew,  as  aforetime  the  rod  before  Aaron. 

Wreathed  thereon  was  the  Bible  with  leaves,  and  the  dove,  washed  with  silver, 
Under  its  canopy  fastened,  had  on  it  a necklace  of  wind-flowers. 

But  in  front  of  the  choir,  round  the  altar-piece  painted  by  Horberg, 

Crept  a garland  gigantic  ; and  bright-curling  tresses  of  angels 
Peeped,  like  the  sun  from  a cloud,  from  out  of  the  shadowy  leaf-work. 
Likewise  the  lustre  of  brass,  new-polished,  blinked  from  the  ceiling, 

And  for  lights  there  were  lilies  of  Pentecost  set  in  the  sockets. 

Loud  rang  the  bells  already  ; the  thronging  crowd  was  assembled 
Far  from  valleys  and  hills,  to  list  to  the  holy  preaching. 

Hark ! then  roll  forth  at  once  the  mighty  tones  of  the  organ, 

Hover  like  voices  from  God,  aloft  like  invisible  spirits. 

Like  as  Elias  in  heaven,  when  he  cast  from  off  him  his  mantle, 

So  cast  off  the  soul  its  garments  of  earth  ; and  with  one  voice 
Chimed  in  the  congregation,  and  sang  an  anthem  immortal 
Of  the  sublime  Wallin,  of  David’s  harp  in  the  North-land 
Tuned  to  the  choral  of  Luther  ; the  song  on  its  mighty  pinions 
Took  every  living  soul,  and  lifted  it  gently  to  heaven, 

And  each  face  did  shine  like  the  Holy  One’s  face  upon  Tabor. 

Lo  ! there  entered  then  into  the  church  the  Reverend  Teacher. 

Father  he  hight  and  he  was  in  the  parish  ; a Christianly  plainness 
Clothed  from  his  head  to  his  feet  the  old  man  of  seventy  winters. 

Friendly  was  he  to  behold,  and  glad  as  the  heralding  angel 
Walked  he  among  the  crowds,  but  still  a contemplative  grandeur 
Lay  on  his  forehead  as  clear  as  on  moss-covered  gravestone  a sunbeam. 

As  in  his  inspiration  (an  evening  twilight  that  faintly 
Gleams  in  the  human  soul,  even  now,  from  the  day  of  creation) 

Th’  Artist,  the  friend  of  heaven,  imagines  Saint  John  when  in  Patmos, 

Gray,  with  his  eyes  uplifted  to  heaven,  so  seemed  then  the  old  man ; 

Such  was  the  glance  of  his  eye,  and  such  were  his  tresses  of  silver. 

All  the  congregation  arose  in  the  pews  that  were  numbered. 

But  with  a cordial  look,  to  the  right  and  the  left  hand,  the  old  man 
Nodding  all  hail  and  peace,  disappeared  in  the  innermost  chancel. 

Simply  and  solemnly  now  proceeded  the  Christian  service, 

Singing  and  prayer,  and  at  last  an  ardent  discourse  from  the  old  man. 

Many  a moving  word  and  warning,  that  out  of  the  heart  came, 

Fell  like  the  dew  of  the  morning,  like  manna  on  those  in  the  desert. 

Then,  when  all  was  finished,  the  Teacher  re-entered  the  chancel, 

Followed  therein  by  the  young.  The  boys  on  the  right  had  their  places, 
Delicate  figures,  with  close-curling  hair  and  cheeks  rosy-blooming. 

But  on  the  left  of  these  there  stood  the  tremulous  lilies, 

Tinged  with  the  blushing  light  of  the  dawn,  the  diffident  maidens,  — 

Folding  their  hands  in  prayer,  and  their  eyes  cast  down  on  the  pavement. 

Now  came,  with  question  and  answer,  the  catechism.  In  the  beginning 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD’S  SUPPER, 


31 


Answered  the  children  with  troubled  and  faltering  voice,  but  the  old  man’s 
Glances  of  kindness  encouraged  them  soon,  and  the  doctrines  eternal 
Flowed,  like  the  waters  of  fountains,  so  clear  from  lips  unpolluted. 

Each  time  the  answer  was  closed,  and  as  oft  as  they  named  the  Redeemer, 
Lowlv  louted  the  boys,  and  lowly  the  maidens  all  courtesied. 

Friendly  the  Teacher  stood,  like  an  angel  of  light  there  among  them, 

And  to  the  children  explained  the  holy,  the  highest,  in  few  words, 
Thorough,  yet  simple  and  clear,  for  sublimity  always  is  simple, 

Both  in  sermon  and  song,  a child  can  seize  on  its  meaning. 

E’en  as  the  green-growing  bud  unfolds  when  Springtide  approaches, 

Leaf  by  leaf  puts  forth,  and  warmed,  by  the  radiant  sunshine, 

Blushes  with  purple  and  gold,  till  at  last  the  perfected  blossom 
Opens  its  odorous  chalice,  and  rocks  with  its  crown  in  the  breezes, 

So  was  unfolded  here  the  Christian  lore  of  salvation, 

Line  by  line  from  the  soul  of  childhood.  The  fathers  and  mothers 
Stood  behind  them  in  tears,  and  were  glad  at  the  well-worded  answer. 

Now  went  the  old  man  up  to  the  altar ; — and  straightway  transfigured 
(So  did  it  seem  unto  me)  was  then  the  affectionate  Teacher. 

Like  the  Lord’s  Prophet  sublime,  and  awful  as  Death  and  as  Judgment 
Stood  he,  the  God-commissioned,  the  soul-searcher,  earthward  descending. 
Glances,  sharp  as  a sword,  into  hearts  that  to  him  were  transparent 
Shot  he  ; his  voice  was  deep,  was  low  like  the  thunder  afar  off. 

So  on  a sudden  transfigured  he  stood  there,  he  spake  and  he  questioned. 

* ‘ This  is  the  faith  of  the  Fathers,  the  faith  the  Apostles  delivered, 

This  is  moreover  the  faith  vvhereunto  I baptized  you,  while  still  ye 
Lay  on  your  mothers’  breasts,  and  nearer  the  portals  of  heaven. 

Slumbering  received  you  then  the  Holy  Church  in  its  bosom  ; 

Wakened  from  sleep  are  ye  now,  and  the  light  in  its  radiant  splendor 
Downward  rains  from  the  heaven  ; — to-day  on  the  threshold  of  childhood 
Kindly  she  frees  you  again,  to  examine  and  make  your  election, 

For  she  knows  naught  of  compulsion,  and  only  conviction  desireth. 

This  is  the  hour  of  your  trial,  the  turning-point  of  existence, 

Seed  for  the  coming  days  ; without  revocation  departeth 
Now  from  your  lips  the  confession  ; Bethink  ye,  before  ye  make  answer! 
Think  not,  0 think  not  with  guile  to  deceive  the  questioning  Teacher. 
Sharp  is  his  eye  to-day,  and  a curse  ever  rests  upon  falsehood. 

Enter  not  with  a lie  on  Life’s  journey  ; the  multitude  hears  you, 

Brothers  and  sisters  and  parents,  what  dear  upon  earth  is  and  holy 
Standeth  before  your  sight  as  a witness  ; the  Judge  everlasting 
Looks  from  the  sun  down  upon  /you,  and  angels  in  waiting  beside  him 
Grave  your  confession  in  letters  of  fire  upon  tablets  eternal. 

Thus,  then,  — believe  ye  in  God,  in  the  Father  who  this  world  created  ? 
Him  who  redeemed  it,  the  Son,  and  the  Spirit  where  both  are  united  ? 

Will  ye  promise  me  here,  (a  holy  promise !)  to  cherish 

God  more  than  all  things  earthly,  and  every  man  as  a brother  ? 

Will  ye  promise  me  here,  to  confirm  your  faith  by  your  living, 

Th’  heavenly  faith  of  affection  ! to  hope,  to  forgive,  and  to  suffer, 

Be  what  it  may  your  condition,  and  walk  before  God  in  uprightness  ? 

Will  ye  promise  me  this  before  God  and  man  ?”  — With  a clear  voice 
Answered  the  young  men  Yes  ! and  Yes ! with  lips  softly -breathing 
Answered  the  maidens  eke.  Then  dissolved  from  the  brow  of  the  Teacher 
Clouds  with  the  lightnings  therein,  and  he  spake  in  accents  more  gentle, 
Soft  as  the  evening’s  breath,  as  harps  by  Babylon’s  rivers. 

“ Hail,  then,  hail  to  you  all  ! To  the  heirdom  of  heaven  be  ye  welcome ! 
Children  no  more  from  this  day,  but  by  covenant  brothers  and  sisters  ! 


32 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Yet,  — for  what  reason  not  children  ? Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven* 

Here  upon  earth  an  assemblage  of  children,  in  heaven  one  Father, 

Ruling  them  all  as  his  household,  — forgiving  in  turn  and  chastising, 

That  is  of  human  life  a picture,  as  Scripture  has  taught  us. 

Blest  are  the  pure  before  God  ! Upon  purity  and  upon  virtue 
Resteth  the  Christian  Faith  ; she  herself  from  on  high  is  descended. 

Strong  as  a man  and  pure  as  a child,  is  the  sum  of  the  doctrine, 

Which  the  Divine  One  taught,  and  suffered  and  died  on  the  cross  for. 

O,  as  ye  wander  this  day  from  childhood’s  sacred  asylum 
Dowmward  and  ever  downward,  and  deeper  in  Age’s  chill  valley, 

O,  how  soon  will  ye  come,  — too  soon  ! — and  long  to  turn  backward 
Up  to  its  hill-tops  again,  to  the  sun-illumined,  where  Judgment 
Stood  like  a father  before  you,  and  Pardon,  clad  like  a mother, 

Gave  you  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  the  loving  heart  was  forgiven, 

Life  was  a play  and  your  hands  grasped  after  the  roses  of  heaven  ! 

Seventy  years  have  I lived  already  ; the  Father  eternal 

Gave  me  gladness  and  care  ; but  the  loveliest  hours  of  existence, 

When  1 have  steadfastly  gazed  in  their  eyes,  I have  instantly  known  them, 
Known  them  all  again  ; — the}7  were  my  childhood’s  acquaintance. 

Therefore  take  from  henceforth,  as  guides  in  the  paths  of  existence, 

Prayer,  with  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  and  Innocence,  bride  of  man’s  childhood^ 
Innocence,  child  beloved,  is  a guest  from  the  world  of  the  blessed, 

Beautiful,  and  in  her  hand  a lily  ; on  life’s  roaring  billows 

Swings  she  in  safety,  she  heedeth  them  not,  in  the  ship  she  is  sleeping. 

Calmly  she  gazes  around  in  the  turmoil  of  men  ; in  the  desert 
Angels  descend  and  minister  unto  her  ; she  herself  knoweth 
Naught  of  her  glorious  attendance  ; but  follows  faithful  and  humble, 

Follows  so  long  as  she  may  her  friend  ; 0 do  not  reject  her, 

For  she  cometh  from  God  and  she  holdeth  the  keys  of  the  heavens.  — 

Prayer  is  Innocence’  friend  ; and  willingly  flieth  incessant 
’Twuxt  the  earth  and  the  sky,  the  carrier-pigeon  of  heaven. 

Son  of  Eternity,  fettered  in  Time,  and  an  exile,  the  Spirit 
Tugs  at  his  chains  evermore,  and  struggles  like  flame  ever  upward. 

Still  he  recalls  with  emotion  his  Father’s  manifold  mansions, 

Thinks  of  the  land  of  his  fathers,  wdiere  blossomed  more  freshly  the  flowerets, 
Shone  a more  beautiful  sun,  and  he  played  with  the  winged  angels. 

Then  grows  the  earth  too  narrow7,  too  close  ; and  homesick  for  heaven 
Longs  the  wanderer  again  ; and  the  Spirit’s  longings  are  worship  ; 

Worship  is  called  his  most  beautiful  hour,  and  its  tongue  is  entreaty. 

Ah  ! when  the  infinite  burden  of  life  descendeth  upon  us, 

Crushes  to  earth  our  hope,  and,  under  the  earth,  in  the  graveyard, 

Then  it  is  good  to^pray  unto  God  ; for  his  sorrowing  children 

Turns  he  ne’er  from  his  door,  but  he  heals  and  helps  and  consoles  them. ' 

Yet  is  it  better  to  pray  when  all  things  are  prosperous  with  us, 

Pray  in  fortunate  days,  for  life’s  most  beautiful  Fortune 
Kneels  before  the  Eternal’s  throne  ; and  with  hands  interfolded, 

Praises  thankful  and  moved  the  only  giver  of  blessings. 

Or  do  ye  know,  ye  children,  one  blessing  that  comes  not  from  Heaven  ? 

What  has  mankind  forsooth,  the  poor  ! that  it  has  not  received  ? 

Therefore,  fall  in  the  dust  and  pray  ! The  seraphs  adoring 
Cover  with  pinions  six  their  face  in  the  glory  of  him  who 
Hung  his  masonry  pendent  on  naught,  when  the  world  he  created. 

Earth  declareth  his  might,  and  the  firmament  utters  his  glory. 

Races  blossom  and  die,  and  stars  fall  downward  from  heaven, 

Downward  like  withered  leaves  ; at  the  last  stroke  of  midnight,  millenniums 
Lay  themselves  down  at  his  feet,  and  he  sees  them,  but  counts  them  as  nothing. 
Wiio  shall  stand  in  his  presence  ? The  wrrath  of  the  judge  is  terrific. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD’S  SUPPER. 


33 


Casting  the  insolent  down  at  a glance.  When  he  speaks  in  his  anger 
Hillocks  skip  like  the  kid,  and  mountains  leap  like  the  roebuck. 

Yet,  — why  are  ye  afraid,  ye  children  ? This  awful  avenger, 

Ah  ! is  a merciful  God  ! God’s  voice  was  not  in  the  earthquake. 

Not  in  the  fire,  nor  the  storm,  but  it  was  in  the  whispering  breezes. 

Love  is  the  root  of  creation  ; God’s  essence  ; worlds  without  number 
Lie  in  his  bosom  like  children  ; he  made  them  for  this  purpose  only. 

Only  to  love  and  to  be  loved  again,  he  breathed  forth  his  spirit 
Into  the  slumbering  dust,  and  upright  standing,  it  laid  its 
Hand  on  its  heart,  and  felt  it  was  warm  with  a flame  out  of  heaven. 

Quench,  0 quench  not  that  flame  ! It  is  the  breath  of  your  being. 

Love  is  life,  but  hatred  is  death.  Not  father,  nor  mother 
Loved  you,  as  God  has  loved  you  ; for  ’t  was  that  you  may  be  happy 
Gave  he  his  only  Son.  When  he  bowed  down  his  head  in  the  death-hour 
Solemnized  Love  its  triumph  ; the  sacrifice  then  was  completed. 

Lo  ! then  was  rent  on  a sudden  the  veil  of  the  temple,  dividing 
Earth  and  heaven  apart,  and  the  dead  from  their  sepulchres  rising 
Whispered  with  pallid  lips  and  low  in  the  ears  of  each  other 
Th’  answer,  but  dreamed  of  before,  to  creation’s  enigma,  — Atonement  ! 

Depths  of  Love  are  Atonement’s  depths,  for  Love  is  Atonement. 

Therefore,  child  of  mortality,  love  thou  the  merciful  Father  ; 

Wish  what  the  Holy  One  wishes,  and  not  from  fear,  but  affection  ; 

Fear  is  the  virtue  of  slaves  ; but  the  heart  that  loveth  is  willing  ; 

Perfect  was  before  God,  and.  perfect  is  Love,  and  Love  only. 

Lovest  thou  God  as  thou  oughtest,  then  lovest  thou  likewise  thy  brethren  ; 

One  is  the  sun  in  heaven,  and  one,  only  one,  is  Love  also. 

Bears  not  each  human  figure  the  godlike  stamp  on  his  forehead  ? 

Readest  thou  not  in  his  face  thine  origin  ? Is  he  not  sailing 

Lost  like  thyself  on  an  ocean  unknown,  and  is  he  not  guided 

By  the  same  stars  that  guide  thee  ? Why  sliouldst  thou  hate  then  thy  brother  ? 

Hateth  he  thee,  forgive  ! For ’t  is  sweet  to  stammer  one  letter 

Of  the  Eternal’s  language  ; — on  earth  it  is  called  Forgiveness  ! 

Knowest  thou  Him,  who  forgave,  with  the  crown  of  thorns  on  his  temples  ? 
Earnestly  prayed  for  his  foes,  for  his  murderers  ? Say,  dost  thou  know  him  ? 

Ah  ! thou  confessest  his  name,  so  follow  likewise  his  example, 

Think  of  thy  brother  no  ill,  but  throw  a veil  over  his  failings, 

Guide  the  erring  aright  ; for  the  good,  the  heavenly  shepherd 
Took  the  lost  lamb  in  his  arms,  and  bore  it  back  to  its  mother. 

This  is  the  fruit  of  Love,  and  it  is  by  its  fruits  that  we  know  it. 

Love  is  the  creature’s  welfare,  with  God  ; but  Love  among  mortals 
Is  but  an  endless  sigh  ! He  longs,  and  endures,  and  stands  waiting, 

Suffers  and  yet  rejoices,  and  smiles  with  tears  on  his  eyelids. 

Hope,  — so  is  called  upon  earth,  his  recompense,  — Hope,  the  befriending, 

Does  what  she  can,  for  she  points  evermore  up  to  heaven,  and  faithful 
Plunges  her  anchor’s  peak  in  the  depths  of  the  grave,  and  beneath  it 
Paints  a more  beautiful  world,  a dim,  but  a sweet  play  of  shadows  ! 

Races,  better  than  we,  have  leaned  on  her  wavering  promise, 

Having  naught  else  but  Hope.  Then  praise  we  our  Father  in  heaven, 

Him,  who  has  given  us  more  ; for  to  us  has  Hope  been  transfigured, 

Groping  no  longer  in  night ; she  is  Faith,  she  is  living  assurance. 

Faith  is  enlightened  Hope  ; she  is  light,  is  the  eye  of  affection, 

Dreams  of  the  longing  interprets,  and  carves  their  visions  in  marble. 

Faith  is  the  sun  of  life  ; and  her  countenance  shines  like  the  Hebrew’s, 

For  she  has  looked  upon  God  ; the  heaven  on  its  stable  foundation 
Draws  she  with  chains  down  to  earth,  and  the  New  Jerusalem  sinketli 
Splendid  with  portals  twelve  in  golden  vapors  descending. 

There  enraptured  she  wanders,  and  looks  at  the  figures  majestic. 


34 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Fears  not  the  winged  crowd,  in  the  midst  of  them  all  is  her  homestead. 

Therefore  love  and  believe  ; for  works  will  follow  spontaneous 
Even  as  day  does  the  sun  ; the  Right  from  the  Good  is  an  offspring, 

Love  in  a bodily  shape  ; and  Christian  works  are  no  more  than 
Animate  Love  and  faith,  as  flowers  are  the  animate  Springtide. 

Works  do  follow  us  all  unto  God  ; there  stand  and  bear  witness 
N ot  what  they  seemed,  — but  what  they  were  only.  Blessed  is  he  who 
Hears  their  confession  secure  ; they  are  mute  upon  earth  until  death’s  hand 
Opens  the  mouth  of  the  silent.  Ye  children,  does  Death  e’er  alarm  you  ? 

Death  is  the  brother  of  Love,  twin-brother  is  he,  and  is  only 
More  austere  to  behold.  With  a kiss  upon  lips  that  are  fading 
Takes  he  the  soul  and  departs,  and,  rocked  in  the  arms  of  affection, 

Places  the  ransomed  child,  new  born,  ’fore  the  face  of  its  father. 

Sounds  of  his  coming  already  I hear,  — see  dimly  his  pinions, 

Swart  as  the  night,  but  with  stars  strewn  upon  them  ! I fear  not  before  him. 
Death  is  only  release,  and  in  mercy  is  mute.  On  his  bosom 
Freer  breathes,  in  its  coolness,  my  breast  ; and  face  to  face  standing 
Look  I on  God  as  he  is,  a sun  unpolluted  by  vapors  ; 

Look  on  the  light  of  the  ages  I loved,  the  spirits  majestic, 

Nobler,  better  than  I ; they  stand  by  the  throne  all  transfigured, 

Vested  in  white,  and  with  harps  of  gold,  and  are  singing  an  anthem, 

Writ  in  the  climate  of  heaven,  in  the  language  spoken  by  angels. 

You,  in  like  manner,  ye  children  beloved,  he  one  day  shall  gather, 

Never  forgets  he  the  weary  ; — then  welcome,  ye  loved  ones,  hereafter  ! 
Meanwhile  forget  not  the  keeping  of  vows,  forget  not  the  promise, 

Wander  from  holiness  onward  to  holiness;  earth  shall  ye  heed  not  ; 

Earth  is  but  dust  and  heaven  is  light ; I have  pledged  you  to  heaven. 

God  of  the  universe,  hear  me  ! thou  fountain  of  Love  everlasting, 

Hark  to  the  voice  of  thy  servant  ! I send  up  my  prayer  to  thy  heaven  ! 

Let  me  hereafter  not  miss  at  thy  throne  one  spirit  of  all  these, 

Whom  thou  hast  given  me  here  ! I have  loved  them  all  like  a father. 

May  they  bear  witness  for  me,  that  I taught  them  the  way  of  salvation, 

Faithful,  so  far  as  I knew,  of  thy  word  ; again  may  they  know  me, 

Fall  on  their  Teacher’s  breast,  and  before  thy  face  may  I place  them, 

Pure  as  they  now  are,  but  only  more  tried,  and  exclaiming  with  gladness, 

Father,  lo  ! I am  here,  and  the  children,  whom  thou  hast  given  me  ! ” 

Weeping  he  spake  in  these  words  ; and  now  at  the  beck  of  the  old  man 
Knee  against  knee  they  knitted  a wreath  round  the  altar’s  enclosure. 

Kneeling  he  read  then  the  prayers  of  the  consecration,  and  softly 
With  him  the  children  read  ; at  the  close,  with  tremulous  accents, 

Asked  he  the  peace  of  Heaven,  a benediction  upon  them. 

Now  should  have  ended  his  task  for  the  day  ; the  following  Sunday 
Was  for  the  young  appointed  to  eat  of  the  Lord’s  holy  Supper. 

Sudden,  as  struck  from  the  clouds,  stood  the  Teacher’silent  and  laid  his 
Hand  on  his  forehead,  and  cast  his  looks  upward  ; while  thoughts  high  and  holy 
Flew  through  the  midst  of  his  soul,  and  his  eyes  glanced  with  wonderful  bright* 
ness. 

“ On  the  next  Sunday,  who  knows  ! perhaps  I shall  rest  in  the  graveyard  ! 

Some  one  perhaps  of  yourselves,  a lily  broken  untimely, 

Bow  down  his  head  to  the  earth  ; why  delay  I ? the  hour  is  accomplished. 

Warm  is  the  heart  ; — I will  ! for  to-day  grows  the  harvest  of  heaven. 

What  I began  accomplish  I now  ; what  failing  therein  is 
I,  the  old  man,  will  answer  to  God  and  the  reverend  father. 

Say  to  me  only,  ye  children,  ye  denizens  new-come  in  heaven, 

Are  ye  ready  this  day  to  eat  of  the  bread  of  Atonement  ? 

What  it  denoteth,  that  know  ye  full  well,  I have  told  it  you  often. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD’S  SUPPER. 


35 


Of  the  new  covenant  symbol  it  is,  of  Atonement  a token, 

Stablished  between  earth  and  heaven.  Man  by  his  sins  and  transgressions 
Far  has  wandered  from  God,  from  his  essence.  ’T  was  in  the  beginning 
Fast  by  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  he  fell,  and  it  hangs  its  crown  o’er  the 
Fall  to  this  day  ; in  the  Thought  is  the  Fall;  in  the  Heart  the  Atonement. 
Infinite  is  the  fall,  — the  Atonement  infinite  likewise. 

See  ! behind  me,  as  far  as  the  old  man  remembers,  and  forward, 

Far  as  Hope  in  her  flight  can  reach  with  her  wearied  pinions, 

Sin  and  Atonement  incessant  go  through  the  lifetime  of  mortals. 

Sin  is  brought  forth  full-grown  ; but  Atonement  sleeps  in  our  bosoms 
Still  as  the  cradled  babe  ; and  dreams  of  heaven  and  of  angels, 

Cannot  awake  to  sensation  ; is  like  the  tones  in  the  harp’s  strings, 

Spirits  imprisoned,  that  wait  evermore  the  deliverer’s  finger. 

Therefore,  ye  children  beloved,  descended  the  Prince  of  Atonement, 

Woke  the  slumberer  from  sleep,  and  she  stands  now  with  eyes  all  resplendent. 
Bright  as  the  vault  of  the  sky,  and  battles  with  Sin  and  o’ercomes  her. 

Downward  to  earth  he  came  and,  transfigured,  thence  reascended, 

Not  from  the  heart  in  like  wise,  for  there  he  still  lives  in  the  Spirit, 

Loves  and  atones  evermore.  So  long  as  Time  is,  is  Atonement. 

Therefore  with  reverence  take  this  day  her  visible  token. 

Tokens  are  dead  if  the  things  live  not.  The  light  everlasting 
Unto  the  blind  is  not,  but  is  born  of  the  eye  that  has  vision. 

Neither  in  bread  nor  in  wine,  but  in  the  heart  that  is  hallowed 
Lieth  forgiveness  enshrined  ; the  intention  alone  of  amendment 
Fruits  of  the  earth  ennobles  to  heavenly  things,  and  removes  all 
Sin  and  the  guerdon  of  sin.  Only  Love  with  his  arms  wide  extended, 

Penitence  weeping  and  praying ; the  Will  that  is  tried,  and  whose  gold  flows 
Purified  forth  from  the  flames  ; in  a word,  mankind  by  Atonement 
Breaketh  Atonement’s  bread,  and  drinketh  Atonement’s  wine-cup. 

But  he  who  cometh  up  hither,  unworthy,  with  hate  in  his  bosom, 

Scoffing  at  men  and  at  God,  is  guilty  of  Christ’s  blessed  body, 

And  the  Redeemer’s  blood  ! To  himself  he  eateth  and  drinketh 
Death  and  doom  ! And  from  this,  preserve  us,  thou  heavenly  Father  ! 

Are  ye  ready,  ye  children,  to  eat  of  the  bread  of  Atonement  ? ” 

Thus  with  emotion  he  asked,  and  together  answered  the  children, 

“ Yes  ! ” with  deep  sobs  interrupted.  Then  read  he  the  due  supplications, 

Read  the  Form  of  Communion,  and  in  chimed  the  organ  and  anthem  : 

“0  Holy  Lamb  of  God,  who  takest  away  our  transgressions, 

Hear  us  ! give  us  thy  peace  ! have  mercy,  have  mercy  upon  us  ! ” 

Th’  old  man,  with  trembling  hand,  and  heavenly  pearls  on  his  eyelids, 

Filled  now  the  chalice  and  paten,  and  dealt  round  the  mystical  symbols. 

0,  then  seemed  it  to  me  as  if  God,  with  the  broad  eye  of  midday, 

Clearer  looked  in  at  the  windows,  and  all  the  trees  in  the  churchyard 
Bowed  down  their  summits  of  green,  and  the  grass  on  the  graves  ’gan  to  shiver. 
But  in  the  children  (I  noted  it  well ; I knew  it)  there  ran  a 
Tremor  of  holy  rapture  along  through  their  ice-cold  members. 

Decked  like  an  altar  before  them,  there  stood  the  green  earth,  and  above  it 
Heaven  opened  itself,  as  of  old  before  Stephen  ; they  saw  there 
Radiant  in  glory  the  Father,  and  on  his  right  hand  the  Redeemer. 

Under  them  hear  they  the  clang  of  harpstrings,  and  angels  from  gold  clouds 
Beckon  to  them  like  brothers,  and  fan  with  their  pinions  of  purple. 

Closed  was  the  Teacher’s  task,  and  with  heaven  in  their  hearts  and  their  faces, 
Up  rose  the  children  all,  and  each  bowed  him,  weeping  full  sorely, 

Downward  to  kiss  that  reverend  hand,  but  all  of  them  pressed  he 
Moved  to  his  bosom,  and  laid,  with  a prayer,  his  hands  full  of  blessings, 

Now  on  the  holy  breast,  and  now  on  the  innocent  tresses. 


36 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 

Under  a spreading  chestnut-tree 
The  village  smithy  stands  ; 

The  smith,  a mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands  ; 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 
His  face  is  like  the  tan  ; 

His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate’er  he  can, 

And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 
For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

W eek  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow  ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 
Look  in  at  the  open  door  ; 

They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 

And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 
Like  chaff  from  a threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ; 

He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 
He  hears  his  daughter’s  voice, 

Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother’s  voice, 
Singing  in  Paradise  ! 

He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 
How  in  the  grave  she  lies  ; 

And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 
A tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  — rejoicing,  — sorrowing, 
Onward  through  life  he  goes  ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 
Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a night’s  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy 
friend, 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught  ! 


Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 
Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 


ENDYMION. 

The  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars  ; 

Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 

Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 

With  shadows  brown  between. 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 

As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 

Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 
Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a tranquil  night  as  this, 

She  woke  Endymion  with  a kiss, 

When,  sleeping  in  the  grove. 

He  dreamed  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian’s  kiss,  unasked,  unsought, 
Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought ; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaze. 

It  comes,  — the  beautiful,  the  free, 

The  crown  of  all  humanity,  — 

In  silence  and  alone 
To  seek  the  elected  one. 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep 
Are  Life’s  oblivion,  the  soul’s  sleep, 
And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him,  who  slumbering  lies. 

0 weary  hearts  ! 0 slumbering  eyes  ! 

0 drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 
Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again  ! 

No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 

No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 
Responds  unto  his  own. 

Responds,  — as  if  with  unseen  wings, 
An  angel  touched  its  quivering  strings  ; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 

* ‘ Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long  ? ” 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 


37 


THE  TWO  LOCKS  OF  HAIR. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  PFIZER. 

A youth,  light-hearted  and  content, 

I wander  through  the  world  ; 

Here,  Arab-like,  is  pitched  my  tent 
And  straight  again  is  furled. 

Yet  oft  I dream,  that  once  a wife 
Close  in  my  heart  was  locked, 

And  in  the  sweet  repose  of  life 
A blessed  child  I rocked. 

I wake  ! Away  that  dream,  — away  ! 

Too  long  did  it  remain  ! 

So  long,  that  both  by  night  and  day 
It  ever  comes  again. 

The  end  lies  ever  in  my  thought  ; 

To  a grave  so  cold  and  deep 
The  mother  beautiful  was  brought  ; 
Then  dropt  the  child  asleep. 

But  now  the  dream  is  wholly  o’er, 

I bathe  mine  eyes  and  see  ; 

And  wander  through  the  world  once  more, 
A youth  so  light  and  free. 

Two  locks  — and  they  are  wondrous 
fair  — 

Left  me  that  vision  mild  ; 

The  brown  is  from  the  mother’s  hair, 
The  blond  is  from  the  child. 

And  when  I see  that  lock  of  gold, 

Pale  grows  the  evening-red  ; 

And  when  the  dark  lock  1 behold, 

I wish  that  I were  dead. 


IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY. 

No  hay  p&jaros  en  los  nidos  de  an  tan  o. 

Spanish  Proverb 

The  sun  is  bright,  — the  air  is  clear, 
The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing, 
And  from  the  stately  elms  I hear 
The  bluebird  prophesying  Spring. 

So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows, 

It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky, 
AYhere  waiting  till  the  west-wind  blows, 
The  freighted  clouds  at  anchor  lie. 

All  things  are  new  ; — the  buds,  the 
leaves, 

That  gild  the  elm-tree’s  nodding  crest, 


And  even  the  nest  beneath  the  eaves  ; — - 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year’s  nest ! 

All  things  rejoice  in  youth  and  love, 
The  fulness  of  their  first  delight  ! 

And  learn  from  the  soft  heavens  above 
The  melting  tenderness  of  night. 

Maiden,  that  read’st  this  simple  rhyme, 
Enjoy  thy  youth,  it  will  not  stay  ; 

Enjoy  the  fragrance  of  thy  prime, 

For  0,  it  is  not  always  May  ! 

Enjoy  the  Spring  of  Love  and  Youth, 

To  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest  ; 

For  Time  will  teach  thee  soon  the  truth. 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year’s  nest ! 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 

The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 

It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering 
wall, 

But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 

It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering 
Past, 

But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the 
blast, 

And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart ! and  cease  repining  ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  stillshining; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 

Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


GOD’S-ACRE. 

I like  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase,  which 
calls 

The  burial-ground  God’s-Acre  ! It  is 
just  ; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls, 

And  breathes  a benison  o’er  the  sleep- 
ing dust. 

God’s-Acre  ! Yes,  that  blessed  name  im- 
parts 

Comfort  to  those,  who  in  the  grave 
have  sown 


38  MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  seed  that  they  had  garnered  in  their 
hearts, 

Their  bread  of  life,  alas  ! no  more  their 
own. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast, 

In  the  sure  faith,  that  we  shall  rise 
again 

At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  archan- 
gel’s blast 

Shall  winnow,  like  a fan,  the  chaff  and 
grain. 

Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal 
bloom, 

In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth ; 

And  each  bright  blossom  mingle  its  per- 
fume 

With  that  of  flowers,  which  never 
bloomed  on  earth. 

With  thy  rude  ploughshare,  Death,  turn 
up  the  sod, 

And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we 
sow  ; 

This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 

This  is  the  place  where  human  harvests 
grow  ! 


TO  THE  RIVER  CHARLES. 

River  ! that  in  silence  windest 

Through  the  meadows,  bright  and  free, 
Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  findest 
In  the  bosom  of  the  sea  ! 

Four  long,  years  of  mingled  feeling, 

Half  in  rest,  and  half  in  strife, 

I have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 

Thou  hast  taught  me,  Silent  River  ! 

Many  a lesson,  deep  and  long  ; 

Thou  hast  been  a generous  giver  ; 

I can  give  thee  but  a song. 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 

I have  watched  thy  current  glide, 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a tide. 

And  in  better  hours  and  brighter. 

When  I saw  thy  waters  gleam, 

I have,  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 

And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 


Hot  for  this  alone  I love  thee, 

Nor  because  thy  waves  of  blue 
From  celestial  seas  above  thee 
Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 

Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 
And  thy  waters  disappear, 

Friends  I love  have  dwelt  beside  thee, 
And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 

More  than  this  ; — thy  name  reminds  me 
Of  three  friends,  all  true  and  tried  ; 
And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer,  closer  to  thy  side. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers  ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start, 
When  I fan  the  living  embers 
On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart  ! 

’T  is  for  this,  thou  Silent  River  ! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee  ; 

Thou  hast  been  a generous  giver, 

Take  this  idle  song  from  me. 


BLIND  BARTIMEUS. 

Blind  Bartimeus  at  the  gates 
Of  Jericho  in  darkness  waits  ; 

He  hears  the  crowd  ; — he  hears  a breath 
Say,  “It  is  Christ  of  Nazareth  ! ” 

And  calls,  in  tones  of  agony, 

T 7)<rov,  e\£rj(j6v  fxe  ! 

The  thronging  multitudes  increase  ; 
Blind  Bartimeus,  hold  thy  peace  ! 

But  still,  above  the  noisy  crowd, 

The  beggar’s  cry  is  shrill  and  loud  ; 
Until  they  say,  “ He  calletli  thee  ! ” 
Qapcrei,  fryeipai,  (pcovel  ere  ! 

Then  saith  the  Christ,  as  silent  stands 
The  crowd,  “What  wilt  thou  at  my 
hands  ? ” 

And  he  replies,  “ 0 give  me  light  ! 
Rabbi,  restore  the  blind  man’s  sight. 
And  Jesus  answers,  "^naye  • 

'H  TTLCTLS  GOV  <j£(TWK€  G6  ! 

Ye  that  have  eyes,  yet  cannot  see, 

In  darkness  and  in  misery, 

Recall  those  mighty  Voices  Three, 
’Irjcrov,  eXerjcrSv  p.e  ! 

Qdpaei,  gyeipai,  virarye  ! 

| H 7 tlgtls  gov  c tcgukc  ae  1 


MAIDENHOOD. 


39 


THE  GOBLET  OF  LIFE. 

Filled  is  Life’s  goblet  to  the  brim  ; 

And.  though  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 
1 see  its  sparkling  bubbles  swim, 

And  chant  a melancholy  hymn 
With  solemn  voice  and  slow. 

No  purple  flowers,  — no  garlands  green, 
Conceal  the  goblet’s  shade  or  sheen, 

Nor  maddening  draughts  of  Hippoerene, 
Like  gleams  of  sunshine,  flash  between 
Thick  leaves  of  mistletoe. 

This  goblet,  wrought  with  curious  art, 

Is  filled  with  waters,  that  upstart, 

When  the  deep  fountains  of  the  heart, 
By  strong  convulsions  rent  apart, 

Are  running  all  to  waste. 

And  as  it  mantling  passes  round, 

With  fennel  is  it  wreathed  and  crowned, 
Whose  seed  and  foliage  sun-imbrowned 
Are  in  its  waters  steeped  and  drowned, 
And  give  a bitter  taste. 

Above  the  lowly  plants  it  towers, 

The  fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowers, 

And  in  an  earlier  age  than  ours 
Was  gifted  with  the  wondrous  powers, 
Lost  vision  to  restore. 

It  gave  new  strength,  and  fearless  mood  ; 
And  gladiators,  fierce  and  rude, 

Mingled  it  in  their  daily  food  ; 

And  he  who  battled  and  subdued, 

A wreath  of  fennel  wore. 

Then  in  Life’s  goblet  freely  press, 

The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness, 

Nor  prize  the  colored  waters  less, 

For  in  thy  darkness  and  distress 

New  light  and  strength  they  give  ! 

And  he  who  has  not  learned  to  know 
How  false  its  sparkling  bubbles  show, 
How  bitter  are  the  drops  of  woe, 

With  which  its  brim  may  overflow, 

He  has  not  learned  to  live. 

The  prayer  of  Ajax  was  for  light  ; 
Through  all  that  dark  and  desperate  fight, 
The  blackness  of  that  noonday  night, 

He  asked  but  the  return  of  sight, 

To  see  his  foeman’s  face. 

Let  our  unceasing,  earnest  prayer 
Be,  too,  for  light,  — for  strength  to  bear 


Our  portion  of  the  weight  of  care, 

That  crushes  into  dumb  despair 
One  half  the  human  race. 

0 suffering,  sad  humanity  ! 

0 ye  afflicted  ones,  who  lie 
Steeped  to  the  lips  in  misery, 

Longing,  and  yet  afraid  to  die. 

Patient,  though  sorely  tried  ! 

1 pledge  you  in  this  cup  of  grief, 

Where  floats  the  fennel’s  bitter  leaf  \ 
The  Battle  of  our  Life  is  brief, 

The  alarm,  — the  struggle,  — the  relief 
Then  sleep  we  side  by  side. 


MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden  ! with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 

In  whose  orbs  a shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies  ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 

As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 

Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 

Gazing,  with  a timid  glance, 

On  the  brooklet’s  swift  advance, 

On  the  river’s  broad  expanse ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 

As  the  river  of  a dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 

When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 

As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 

Sees  the  falcon’s  shadow  fly  ? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 

That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 
Deafened  by  the  cataract’s  roar  ? 

0,  thou  child  of  many  prayers  ! 

Life  hath  quicksands,  — Life  hath  snares  J 
Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 

May  glides  onward  into  June. 


40 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Childhood  is  the  hough,  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered  ; — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 

To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a lily  in  thy  hand  ; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 
One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 

On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

O,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  cannot  heal, 

Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a sunless  heart, 

For  a smile  of  God  thou  art. 


EXCELSIOR. 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 

As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A youth,  who  bore,  ’mid  snow  and  ice, 
A banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

His  brow  was  sad  ; his  eye  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright ; 


Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 

And  from  his  lips  escaped  a groan, 
Excelsior  ! 

“ Try  not  the  Pass  ! ” the  old  man  said 
‘ ‘ Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide ! ” 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior ! 

“ 0 stay,”  the  maiden  said,  “ and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast ! ” 

A tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 

But  still  he  answered,  with  a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

“ Beware  the  pine-tree’s  withered  branch 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  ! ” 

This  was  the  peasant’s  last  Good-night, 
A voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 

A voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device. 
Excelsior  ! 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 

And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 

A voice  fell,  like  a falling  star, 
Excelsior ! 


THE  SLAVE’S  DREAM. 


41 


POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 


[The  following  poems,  with  one  exception,  were  written  at  sea,  in  the  latter  part  of  October,  184*2. 
I had  not  then  heard  of  Dr.  Channing’s  death.  Since  that  event,  the  poem  addressed  to  him  is  no 
longer  appropriate.  I have  decided,  however,  to  let  it  remain  as  it  was  written,  in  testimony  of  my 
admiration  for  a great  and  good  man.] 


TO  WILLIAM  E.  CHAINING. 

The  pages  of  tliy  book  I read, 

And  as  I closed  each  one. 

My  heart,  responding,  ever  said, 

“ Servant  of  God  ! well  done  ! ” 

Well  done ! Thy  words  are  great  and 
hold; 

At  times  they  seem  to  me, 

Like  Luther’s,  in  the  days  of  old, 

Half- battles  for  the  free. 

Go  on,  until  this  land  revokes 
The  old  and  chartered  Lie, 

The  feudal  curse,  whose  whips  and  yokes 
Insult  humanity. 

A voice  is  ever  at  thy  side 
Speaking  in  tones  of  might, 

Like  the  prophetic  voice,  that  cried 
To  John  in  Patmos,  4 * Write  ! ” 

Write  ! and  tell  out  this  bloody  tale  ; 

Record  this  dire  eclipse, 

This  Day  of  Wrath,  this  Endless  Wail, 
This  dread  Apocalypse ! 


THE  SLAVE’S  DREAM. 

Beside  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay. 

His  sickle  in  his  hand ; 

His  breast  was  bare,  his  matted  hair 
Was  buried  in  the  sand. 

Again,  in  the  mist  and  shadow  of  sleep, 
He  saw  his  Native  Land. 

Wide  through  the  landscape  of  his  dreams 
The  lordly  Niger  flowed  ; 

Beneath  the  palm-trees  on  the  plain 
Once  more  a king  he  strode  ; 

And  heard  the  tinkling  caravans 
Descend  the  mountain-road. 

He  saw  once  more  his  dark-eyed  queen 
Among  her  children  stand  ; 


They  clasped  his  neck,  they  kissed  his 
cheeks, 

They  held  him  by  the  hand  ! — 

A tear  burst  from  the  sleeper’s  lids 
And  fell  into  the  sand. 

And  then  at  furious  speed  he  rode 
Along  the  Niger’s  bank  ; 

His  bridle-reins  were  golden  chains, 
And,  with  a martial  clank, 

At  each  leap  he  could  feel  his  scabbard 
of  steel 

Smiting  his  stallion’s  flank. 

Before  him,  like  a blood-red  flag, 

The  bright  flamingoes  flew  ; 

Erom  morn  till  night  he  followed  their 
flight, 

O’er  plains  where  the  tamarind  grew, 
Till  he  saw  the  roofs  of  Caflre  huts, 

And  the  ocean  rose  to  view. 

At  night  he  heard  the  lion  roar, 

And  the  hyena  scream, 

And  the  river-horse,  as  he  crushed  the 
reeds 

Beside  some  hidden  stream  ; 

And  it  passed,  like  a glorious  roll  of 
drums, 

Through  the  triumph  of  his  dream. 

The  forests,  with  their  myriad  tongues, 
Shouted  of  liberty  ; 

And  the  Blast  of  the  Desert  cried  aloud, 
With  a voice  so  wild  and  free, 

That  he  started  in  his  sleep  and  smiled 
At  their  ten^estuous  glee. 

He  did  not  feel  the  driver’s  whip, 

Nor  the  burning  heat  of  day  ; 

For  Death  had  illumined  the  Land  of 
Sleep, 

And  his  lifeless  body  lay 
A worn-out  fetter,  that  the  soul 
Had  broken  and  thrown  away  ! 


42 


POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 


THE  GOOD  PART, 

THAT  SHALL  NOT  BE  TAKEN  AWAY. 

She  dwells  by  Great  Kenliawa’s  side, 
In  valleys  green  and  cool  ; 

And  all  her  hope  and  all  her  pride 
Are  in  the  village  school. 

Her  soul,  like  the  transparent  air 
That  robes  the  hills  above, 

Though  not  of  earth,  encircles  there 
All  things  with  arms  of  love. 

And  thus  she  walks  among  her  girls 
With  praise  and  mild  rebukes  ; 

Subduing  e’en  rude  village  churls 
By  her  angelic  looks. 

She  reads  to  them  at  eventide 
Of  One  who  came  to  save  ; 

To  cast  the  captive’s  chains  aside 
And  liberate  the  slave. 

And  oft  the  blessed  time  foretells 
When  all  men  shall  be  free  ; 

And  musical,  as  silver  bells, 

Their  falling  chains  shall  be. 

And  following  her  beloved  Lord, 

In  decent  poverty, 

She  makes  her  life  one  sweet  record 
And  deed  of  charity. 

For  she  w7as  rich,  and  gave  up  all 
To  break  the  iron  bands 

Of  those  who  waited  in  her  hall, 

And  labored  in  her  lands. 

Long  since  beyond  the  Southern  Sea 
Their  outbound  sails  have  sped, 

While  she,  in  meek  humility. 

Now  earns  her  daily  bread. 

It  is  their  prayers,  which  never  cease, 
•That  clothe  her  with  such  grace  ; 

Their  blessing  is  the  light  of  peace 
That  shines  upon  her  face. 


THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL 
SWAMP. 

In  dark  fens  of  the  Dismal  Swamp 
The  hunted  Negro  lay  ; 

He  saw  tile  fire  of  the  midnight  camp, 
And  heard  at  times  a horse’s  tramp 
And  a bloodhound’s  distant  bay. 


Where  will-o’-the-wisps  and  glow-worms 
shine, 

In  bulrush  and  in  brake ; 

Where  waving  mosses  shroud  the  pine, 
And  the  cedar  grows,  and  the  poisonous 
vine 

Is  spotted  like  the  snake  ; 

Where  hardly  a human  foot  could  pass, 
Or  a human  heart  would  dare, 

On  the  quaking  turf  of  the  green  morass 
He  crouched  in  the  rank  and  tangled 
grass, 

Like  a wild  beast  in  his  lair. 

A poor  old  slave,  infirm  and  lame ; 

Great  scars  deformed  his  face ; 

On  his  forehead  he  bore  the  brand  of 
shame, 

And  the  rags,  that  hid  his  mangled  frame, 
Were  the  livery  of  disgrace. 

All  things  above  -were  bright  and  fair, 
All  things  were  glad  and  free  ; 

Lithe  squirrels  darted  here  and  there, 
And  wild  birds  filled  the  echoing  air 
With  songs  of  Liberty  ! 

On  him  alone  was  the  doom  of  pain. 
From  the  morning  of  his  birth  ; 

On  him  alone  the  curse  of  Cain 
Fell,  like  a flail  on  the  garnered  grain, 
And  struck  him  to  the  earth ! 


THE  SLAVE  SINGING  AT  MID- 
NIGHT. 

Loud  he  sang  the  psalm  of  David  ! 
He,  a Negro  and  enslaved, 

Sang  of  Israel’s  victory, 

Sang  of  Zion,  bright  and  free. 

In  that  hour,  when  night  is  calmest, 
Sang  he  from  the  Hebrew7  Psalmist, 

In  a voice  so  sweet  and  clear 
That  I could  not  choose  but  hear, 

Songs  of  triumph,  and  ascriptions, 
Such  as  reached  the  svrart  Egyptians, 
When  upon  the  Red  Sea  coast 
Perished  Pharaoh  and  his  host. 

And  the  voice  of  his  devotion 
Filled  my  soul  wdth  strange  emotion ; 
For  its  tones  by  turns  were  glad, 
Sweetly  solemn,  wildly  sad. 


THE  QUADROON  GIRL. 


43 


Paul  and  Silas,  in  their  prison, 

Sang  of  Christ,  the  Lord  arisen, 

And  an  earthquake’s  arm  of  might 
Broke  their  dungeon-gates  at  night. 

But,  alas ! what  holy  angel 
Brings  the  Slave  this  glad  evangel  ? 

And  what  earthquake’s  arm  of  might 
Breaks  his  dungeon-gates  at  night  ? 

THE  WITNESSES. 

In  Ocean’s  wide  domains, 

Half  buried  in  the  sands, 

Lie  skeletons  in  chains, 

With  shackled  feet  and  hands. 

Beyond  the  fall  of  dews, 

Deeper  than  plummet  lies, 

Float  ships,  with  all  their  crews, 

No  more  to  sink  nor  rise. 

There  the  black  Slave-ship  swims, 
Freighted  with  human  forms, 

Whose  fettered,  fleshless  limbs 
Are  not  the  sport  of  storms. 

These  are  the  bones  of  Slaves  ; 

They  gleam  from  the  abyss  ; 

They  cry,  from  yawning  waves, 

“We  are  the  Witnesses  ! ” 

Within  Earth’s  wide  domains 
Are  markets  for  men’s  lives  ; 

Their  necks  are  galled  with  chains, 
Their  wrists  are  cramped  with  gyves. 

Dead  bodies,  that  the  kite 
In  deserts  makes  its  prey  ; 

Murders,  that  with  affright 

Scare  school-boys  from  their  play  ! 

All  evil  thoughts  and  deeds  ; 

Anger,  and  lust,  and  pride  ; 

The  foulest,  rankest  weeds, 

That  choke  Life’s  groaning  tide  ! 

These  are  the  woes  of  Slaves  ; 

They  glare  from  the  abyss  ; 

They  cry,  from  unknown  graves, 

“We  are  the  Witnesses  ! ” 


THE  QUADROON  GIRL. 

The  Slaver  in  the  broad  lagoon 
Lay  moored  with  idle  sail ; 
He  waited  for  the  rising  moon, 
And  for  the  evening  gale. 


Under  the  shore  his  boat  was  tied, 

And  all  her  listless  crew 

Watched  the  gray  alligator  slide 
Into  the  still  bayou. 

Odors  of  orange-flowers,  and  spice, 
Reached  them  from  time  to  time. 

Like  airs  that  breathe  from  Paradise 
Upon  a world  of  crime. 

The  Planter,  under  his  roof  of  thatch, 
Smoked  thoughtfully  and  slow  ; 

The  Slaver’s  thumb  was  on  the  latch, 

He  seemed  in  haste  to  go. 

He  said,  “ My  ship  at  anchor  rides 
In  yonder  broad  lagoon  ; 

I only  wait  the  evening  tides, 

And  the  rising  of  the  moon.” 

Before  them,  with  her  face  upraised, 

In  timid  attitude. 

Like  one  half  curious,  half  amazed, 

A Quadroon  maiden  stood. 

Her  eyes  were  large,  and  full  of  light, 
Her  arms  and  neck  were  bare  ; 

No  garment  she  wore  save  akirtle  bright, 
And  her  own  long,  raven  hair. 

And  on  her  lips  there  played  a smile 
As  holy,  meek,  and  faint, 

As  lights  in  some  cathedral  aisle 
The  features  of  a saint. 

“ The  soil  is  barren,  — the  farm  is  old  ” ; 
The  thoughtful  planter  said  ; 

Then  looked  upon  the  Slaver’s  gold, 
And  then  upon  the  maid. 

His  heart  within  him  was  at  strife 
With  such  accursed  gains  : 

For  he  knew  whose  passions  gave  her  life, 
Whose  blood  ran  in  her  veins. 

But  the  voice  of  nature  was  too  weak  ; 
He  took  the  glittering  gold  ! 

Then  pale  as  death  grew  the  maiden’s 
cheek, 

Her  hands  as  icy  cold. 

The  Slaver  led  her  from  the  door, 

He  led  her  by  the  hand, 

To  be  his  slave  and  paramour 
In  a strange  and  distant  land  i 


44 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


THE  WARNING. 

Beware  ! The  Israelite  of  old,  who  tore 
The  lion  in  his  path,  — when,  poor 
and  blind, 

He  saw  the  blessed  light  of  heaven  no 
more, 

Shorn  of  his  noble  strength  and  forced 
to  grind 

In  prison,  and  at  last  led  forth  to  be 

A pander  to  Philistine  revelry,  — 

Upon  the  pillars  of  the  temple  laid 
His  desperate  hands,  and  in  its  over- 
throw 

Destroyed  himself,  and  with  him  those 
who  made 

A cruel  mockery  of  his  sightless  woe  ; 


The  poor,  blind  Slave,  the  scofF  and  jest 
of  all, 

Expired,  and  thousands  perished  in  the 
fall ! 

There  is  a poor,  blind  Samson  in  this 
land, 

Shorn  of  his  strength  and  bound  in 
bonds  of  steel, 

Who  may,  in  some  grim  revel,  raise  his 
hand, 

And  shake  the  pillars  of  this  Common- 
weal, 

Till  the  vast  Temple  of  our  liber- 
ties 

A shapeless  mass  of  wreck  and  rubbish 
lies. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


Victorian  ) 

Hypolito  ) 

The  Count  of  Lara  I 

Don  Carlos  )*•**' 

The  Archbishop  of  Toledo. 

A Cardinal. 

Beltran  Cruzado 

Bartolome  Roman 

The  Padre  Cura  of  Guadarrama. 

Pedro  Crespo 

Pancho  

Francisco 

Chispa 

Baltasar 

Preciosa 

Angelica 

Martina 

Dolores 

Gypsies , Musicians,  Sfc. 


Students  of  AlcalA. 
Gentlemen  of  Madrid. 


Count  of  the  Gypsies . 

A young  Gypsy 

Alcalde. 

Alguacil. 

Lara's  Servant. 
Victorian's  Servant . 
Innkeeper. 

A Gypsy  Girl. 

A poor  Girl. 

The  Padre  Cura's  Niece. 
Preciosa' s Maid. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I.  — The  Count  of  Lara’s  cham- 
bers. Night.  The  Count  in  his  dress- 
ing-gown, smoking  and  conversing  with 
Don  Carlos. 

Lara.  You  were  not  at  the  play  to- 
night, Don  Carlos ; 

How  happened  it  ? 

Don  C.  I had  engagements  else- 
where. 

Pray  who  was  there  ? 

Lara . Why,  all  the  town  and  court. 


The  house  was  crowded  ; and  the  busy 
fans 

Among  the  gayly  dressed  and  perfumed 
ladies 

Fluttered  like  butterflies  among  the 
flowers. 

There  was  the  Countess  of  Medina  Celi ; 

The  Goblin  Lady  with  her  Phantom 
Lover, 

Her  Lindo  Don  Diego  ; Doha  Sol, 

And  Doha  Serafina,  and  her  cousins. 

Don  C.  What  was  the  play  ? 

Lara.  It  was  a dull  affair  ; 


'HE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


45 


One  of  those  comedies  in  which  you  see, 
As  Lope  says,  the  history  of  the  world 
Brought  down  from  Genesis  to  the  Day 
of  Judgment. 

There  were  three  duels  fought  in  the  first 
act, 

Three  gentlemen  receiving  deadly 
wounds, 

Laying  their  hands  upon  their  hearts, 
and  saying, 

“0,  I am  dead  !”  a lover  in  a closet, 

An  old  hidalgo,  and  a gay  Don  Juan, 

A Dona  Inez  with  a black  mantilla, 
Followed  at  twilight  by  an  unknown 
lover, 

Who  looks  intently  where  he  knows  she 
is  not ! 

Don  C.  Of  course,  the  Preciosa  danced 
to-night  ? 

Lara.  And  never  better.  Every  foot- 
step fell 

As  lightly  as  a sunbeam  on  the  water. 

1 think  the  girl  extremely  beautiful. 

Don  C.  Almost  beyond  the  privilege 
of  woman  ! 

I saw  her  in  the  Prado  yesterday. 

Her  step  was  royal,  — queen-like,  — and 
her  face 

As  beautiful  as  a saint’s  in  Paradise. 

Lara.  May  not  a saint  fall  from  her 
Paradise, 

And  be  no  more  a saint  ? 

Don  C.  Why  do  you  ask  ? 

Lara.  Because  I have  heard  it  said 
this  angel  fell, 

And  though  she  is  a virgin  outwardly, 
Within  she  is  a sinner  ; like  those  panels 
Of  doors  and  altar-pieces  the  old  monks 
Painted  in  convents,  with  the  Virgin 
Mary 

•On  the  outside,  and  on  the  inside  Venus  ! 

Don  C.  You  do  her  wrong ; indeed, 
you  do  her  wrong ! 

She  is  as  virtuous  as  she  is  fair. 

Lara.  How  credulous  you  are  ! Why 
look  you,  friend, 

There ’s  not  a virtuous  woman  in  Madrid, 
In  this  whole  city ! And  would  you  per- 
suade me 

That  a mere  dancing-girl,  who  shows 
herself, 

Nightly,  half  naked,  on  the  stage,  for 
money, 

And  with  voluptuous  motions  fires  the 
blood 

Of  inconsiderate  youth,  is  to  be  held 
A model  for  her  virtue  ? 


Don  C.  You  forget 

She  is  a Gypsy  girl. 

Lara.  And  therefore  won 

The  easier. 

Don  C.  Nay,  not  to  be  won  at  all ! 
The  only  virtue  that  a Gypsy  prizes 
Is  chastity.  That  is  her  only  virtue. 
Dearer  than  life  she  holds  it.  I remem- 
ber 

A Gypsy  woman,  a vile,  shameless  bawd, 
Whose  craft  was  to  betray  the  young  and 
fair  ; 

And  yet  this  woman  was  above  all  bribes. 
And  when  a noble  lord,  touched  by  her 
beauty, 

The  wild  and  wizard  beauty  of  her  race, 
Offered  her  gold  to  be  what  she  made 
others, 

She  turned  upon  him,  with  a look  of 
scorn, 

And  smote  him  in  the  face ! 

Lara.  And  does  that  prove 

That  Preciosa  is  above  suspicion  ? 

Don  C.  It  proves  a nobleman  may  be 
repulsed 

When  he  thinks  conquest  easy.  I believe 
That  woman,  in  her  deepest  degrada- 
tion, 

Holds  something  sacred,  something  un- 
defiled, 

Some  pledge  and  keepsake  of  her  higher 
nature, 

And,  like  the  diamond  in  the  dark,  re- 
tains 

Some  quenchless  gleam  of  the  celestial 
light ! 

Lara.  Yet  Preciosa  would  have  taken 
the  gold. 

Don  C.  {rising).  I do  not  think  so. 

Lara.  I am  sure  of  it. 

But  why  this  haste  ? Stay  yet  a little 
longer. 

And  fight  the  battles  of  your  Dulcinea. 

Don  C.  ’T  is  late.  I must  begone, 
for  if  I stay 

You  will  not  be  persuaded. 

Lara.  Y es  ; persuade  me. 

Don  C.  No  one  so  deaf  as  he  who  will 
not  hear  ! 

Lara.  No  one  so  blind  as  he  who  will 
not  see  ! 

Don  C.  And  so  good  night.  I wish 
you  pleasant  dreams, 

And  greater  faith  in  woman.  [Exit. 

Lara.  Greater  faith  ! 

I have  the  greatest  faith  ; for  I believe 
Victorian  is  her  lover.  I believe 


46 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


That  I shall  he  to-morrow  ; and  there- 
after 

Another,  and  another,  and  another, 
Chasing  each  other  through  her  zodiac, 
As  Taurus  chases  Aries. 

(Enter  Francisco  with  a casket.) 

Well,  Francisco, 
What  speed  with  Preciosa  ? 

Fran.  None,  my  lord. 

She  sends  your  jewels  back,  and  bids  me 
tell  you 

She  is  not  to  be  purchased  by  your  gold. 
Lara.  Then  I will  try  some  other  way 
to  win  her. 

Pray,  dost  thou  know  Victorian  ? 

Fran.  Yes,  my  lord  ; 

I saw  him  at  the  jeweller’s  to-day. 

Lara.  What  was  he  doing  there  ? 
Fran.  I saw  him  buy 

A golden  ring,  that  had  a ruby  in  it. 
Lara.  Was  there  another  like  it  ? 
Fran.  One  so  like  it 

I could  not  choose  between  them. 

Lara.  It  is  well. 

To-morrow  morning  bringthat  ringtome. 
Do  not  forget.  N ow  light  me  to  my  bed. 

[ Exeunt . 


Scene  II.  — A street  in  Madrid.  Enter 

Chispa,  followed  by  musicians , with  a 

bagpipe,  guitars,  and  other  instruments. 

Chispa.  Abernuncio  Satanas  ! and  a 
plague  on  all  lovers  who  ramble  about  at 
night,  drinking  the  elements,  instead  of 
sleeping  quietly  in  their  beds.  Every 
dead  man  to  his  cemetery,  say  I ; and 
every  friar  to  his  monastery.  N ow,  here ’s 
my  master,  Victorian,  yesterday  a cow- 
keeper,  and  to-day  a gentleman  ; yester- 
day a student,  and  to-day  a lover  ; and 
I must  be  up  later  than  the  nightingale, 
for  as  the  abbot  sings  so  must  the 
sacristan  respond.  God  grant  he  may 
soon  be  married,  for  then  shall  all  this 
serenading  cease.  Ay,  marry  ! marry  ! 
marry  ! Mother,  what  does  marry  mean  ? 
It  means  to  spin,  to  bear  children,  and 
to  weep,  my  daughter  ! And,  of  a truth, 
there  is  something  more  in  matrimony 
than  the  wedding-ring.  (To  the  musi- 
cians. ) And  now,  gentlemen,  Pax  vobis- 
cum  ! as  the  ass  said  to  the  cabbages. 
Pray,  walk  this  way  ; and  don’t  hang 
down  your  heads.  It  is  no  disgrace  to  j 
have  an  old  father  and  a ragged  shirt.  ! 


Now,  look  you,  you  are  gentlemen  who 
lead  the  life  of  crickets  ; you  enjoy  hun- 
ger by  day  and  noise  by  night.  Yet,  I 
beseech  you,  for  this  once  be  not  loud, 
but  pathetic  ; for  it  is  a serenade  to  a 
damsel  in  bed,  and  not  to  the  Man  in  the 
Moon.  Ycur  object  is  not  to  arouse  and 
terrify,  but  to  soothe  and  bring  lulling 
dreams.  Therefore,  each  shall  not  play 
upon  his  instrument  as  if  it  were  the  only 
one  in  the  universe,  but  gently,  and  with 
a certain  modesty,  according  with  the 
others.  Pray,  how  may  I call  thy  name, 
friend  ? 

First  Mus.  Geronimo  Gil,  at  your 
service. 

Chispa.  Every  tub  smells  of  the  wine 
that  is  in  it.  Pray,  Geronimo,  is  not 
Saturday  an  unpleasant  day  with  thee  ? 

First  Mus.  Why  so  ? 

Chispa.  Because  I have  heard  it 
said  that  Saturday  is  an  unpleasant 
day  with  those  who  have  but  one  shirt. 
Moreover,  I have  seen  thee  at  the  tavern, 
and  if  thou  canst  run  as  fast  as  thou 
canst  drink,  I should  like  to  hunt  hares 
with  thee.  What  instrument  is  that  ? 

First  Mus.  An  Aragonese  bagpipe. 

Chispa.  Pray,  art  thou  related  to  the 
bagpiper  of  Bujalance,  who  asked  a 
maravedi  for  playing,  and  ten  for  leav' 
ing  olf  ? 

First  Mus.  No,  your  honor. 

Chispa.  I am  glad  of  it.  What  other 
instruments  have  we  ? 

Second  and  Third  Musicians . Wc 
play  the  bandurria. 

Chispa.  A pleasing  instrument.  And 
thou  ? 

Fourth  Mus.  The  fife. 

Chispa.  1 like  it ; it  has  a cheerful, 
soul-stirring  sound,  that  soars  up  to  my 
lady’s  window  like  the  song  of  a swallow. 
And  you  others  ? 

Other  Mus.  We  are  the  singers,  please 
your  honor. 

Chispa.  You  are  too  many.  Do  you 
think  we  are  going  to  sing  mass  in  the 
cathedral  of  Cordova  ? Four  men  can 
make  but  little  use  of  one  shoe,  and  I see 
not  how  you  can  all  sing  in  one  song. 
But  follow  me  along  the  garden  wall. 
That  is  the  way  my  master  climbs  to  the 
lady’s  window.  It  is  by  the  Vicar’s 
skirts  that  the  Devil  climbs  into  the 
belfry.  Come,  follow  me,  and  make  no 
noise.  [Exucnt. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


47 


Scene  III.  — Preciosa’s  chamber.  She 
stands  at  the  open  window. 

Tree.  How  slowly  through  the  lilac- 
scented  air 

Descends  the  tranquil  moon ! Like 
thistle-down 

The  vapory  clouds  float  in  the  peaceful 
sky  ; 

And  sweetly  from  yon  hollow  vaults  of 
shade 

The  nightingales  breathe  out  their  souls 
in  song. 

And  hark  ! what  songs  of  love,  what 
soul-like  sounds, 

Answer  them  from  below  ! 


■X  SERENADE, 

Stars  of  the  summer  night  ! 

Far  in  yon  azure  deeps, 

Hide,  hide  your  golden  light ! 

She  sleeps  ! 

My  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon  of  the  summer  night  ! 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps, 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light  ! 

She  sleeps  ! 

My  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps  ! 

Wind  of  the  summer  night ! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps, 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light ! 

She  sleeps  ! 

My  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps  ! 

Dreams  of  the  summer  night ! 

Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps 
Watch  ! while  in  slumbers  light 
She  sleeps  ! 

My  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps  ! 

(Enter  Victorian  by  the  balcony.) 

Viet.  Poor  little  dove  ! Thou  trem- 
blest  like  a leaf  ! 

Prec.  I am  so  frightened!  ’Tis  for 
thee  I tremble  ! 

J hate  to  have  thee  climb  that  wall  by 
night  ! 

Did  no  one  see  thee  ? 

Viet.  None,  my  love,  but  thou. 

Prec.  ’T  is  very  dangerous  ; and  when 
thou  art  gone 

I chide  myself  for  letting  thee  come  here 


Thus  stealthily  by  night.  Where  hast 
thou  been  ? 

Since  yesterday  I have  no  news  from  thee. 

Viet.  Since  yesterday  I have  been  in 
Alcala. 

Erelong  the  time  will  come,  sweet 
Preciosa, 

When  that  dull  distance  shall  no  more 
divide  us  ; 

And  I no  more  shall  scale  thy  wall  by 
night 

To  steal  a kiss  from  thee,  as  I do  now. 

Prec.  An  honest  thief,  to  steal  bul 
what  thou  givest. 

Viet.  And  we  shall  sit  together  un, 
molested, 

And  words  of  true  love  pass  from  tongue 
to  tongue, 

As  singing  birds  from  one  bough  to  an- 
other. 

Prec.  That  were  a life  to  make  time 
envious  ! 

I knew  that  thou  wouldst  come  to  me 
to-night. 

I saw  thee  at  the  play. 

Viet.  Sweet  child  of  air  ! 

Never  did  I behold  thee  so  attired 

And  garmented  in  beauty  as  to-night  ! 

What  hast  thou  done  to  make  thee  look 
so  fair  ? 

Prec.  Am  I not  always  fair  ? 

Viet.  Ay,  and  so  fair 

That  I am  jealous  of  all  eyes  that  see 
thee, 

And  wish  that  they  were  blind. 

Prec.  I heed  them  not ; 

When  thou  art  present,  I see  none  but 
thee  ! 

Viet.  There’s  nothing  fair  nor  beau- 
tiful, but  takes 

Something  from  thee,  that  makes  it 
beautiful. 

Prec.  And  yet  thou  leavest  me  for 
those  dusty  books. 

Viet.  Thou  comest  between  me  and 
those  books  too  often  ! 

I see  thy  face  in  everything  I see  ! 

The  paintings  in  the  chapel  wear  thy 
looks, 

The  canticles  are  changed  to  sarabands, 

And  with  the  learned  doctors  of  the 
schools 

I see  thee  dance  caehuchas. 

Prec.  In  good  sooth, 

I dance  with  learned  doctors  of  the 
schools 

To-morrow  morning. 


48 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Vid.  And  with  whom,  I pray  ? 

Prec.  A grave  and  reverend  Cardinal, 
and  his  Grace 
The  Archbishop  of  Toledo. 

Vid . What  mad  jest 

Is  this  ? 

Prec . It  is  no  jest  ; indeed  it  is  not. 

Vid.  Prithee,  explain  thyself. 

Prec.  Why,  simply  thus. 

Thou  knowest  the  Pope  has  sent  here 
into  Spain 

To  put  a stop  to  dances  on  the  stage. 

Vid.  1 have  heard  it  whispered. 

Prec.  Now  the  Cardinal, 

Who  for  this  purpose  comes,  would  fain 
behold 

With  his  own  eyes  these  dances  ; and  the 
Archbishop 
Has  sent  for  me  — 

Vid.  That  thou  mayst  dance  before 
them  ! 

Now  viva  la  cachucha  ! It  will  breathe 
The  fire  of  youth  into  these  gray  old 
men  ! 

’T  will  be  thy  proudest  conquest  ! 

Prec.  Saving  one. 

And  yet  I fear  these  dances  will  be 
stopped, 

And  Preciosa  be  once  more  a beggar. 

Vid.  The  sweetest  beggar  that  e’er 
asked  for  alms  ; 

With  such  beseeching  eyes,  that  when  I 
saw  thee 

I gave  my  heart  away  ! 

Prec.  Dost  thou  remember 

When  first  we  met  ? 

Vid.  It  was  at  Cordova, 

In  the  cathedral  garden.  Thou  wast 
sitting 

Under  the  orange-trees,  beside  a fountain. 

Prec.  ’Twas  Easter-Sunday.  The  full- 
blossomed  trees 

Filled  all  the  air  with  fragrance  and  with 
joy. 

The  priests  were  singing,  and  the  organ 
sounded, 

And  then  anon  the  great  cathedral  bell. 
It  was  the  elevation  of  the  Host. 

We  both  of  us  fell  down  upon  our  knees, 
Under  the  orange  boughs,  and  prayed  to- 
gether. 

I never  had  been  happy  till  that  moment. 

Viet.  Thou  blessed  angel  ! 

Prec.  And  when  thou  wast  gone 

I felt  an  aching  here.  I did  not  speak 
To  any  one  that  day.  But  from  that  day 
Bartoiome  grew  hateful  unto  me. 


Vid.  Remember  him  no  more.  Let 
not  his  shadow 

Come  between  thee  and  me.  Sweet 
Preciosa  ! 

I loved  thee  even  then,  though  I was 
silent  ! 

Prec.  I thought  I ne’er  should  see  thy 
face  again. 

Thy  farewell  had  a sound  of  sorrow  in  it. 

Vid.  That  was  the  first  sound  in  the 
song  of  love  ! 

Scarce  more  than  silence  is,  and  yet  a 
sound. 

Hands  of  invisible  spirits  touch  the  strings 

Of  that  mysterious  instrument,  the  soul, 

And  play  the  prelude  of  our  fate.  We 
hear 

The  voice  prophetic,  and  are  not  alone. 

Prec.  That  is  my  faith.  Dost  thou  be- 
lieve these  warnings  ? 

Vid.  So  far  as  this.  Our  feelings  and 
our  thoughts 

Tend  ever  on,  and  rest  not  in  the  Present. 

As  drops  of  rain  fall  into  some  dark  well, 

And  from  below  comes  a scarce  audible 
sound, 

So  fall  our  thoughts  into  the  dark  Here- 
after, 

And  their  mysterious  echo  reaches  us. 

Prec.  I have  felt  it  so,  but  found  no 
words  to  say  it ! 

I cannot  reason  ; I can  only  feel ! 

But  thou  hast  language  for  all  thoughts 
and  feelings. 

Thou  art  a scholar  ; and  sometimes  I 
think 

We  cannot  walk  together  in  this  world  ! 

The  distance  that  divides  us  is  too  great ! 

Henceforth  thy  pathway  lies  among  the 
stars  ; 

I must  not  hold  thee  back. 

Vid.  Thou  little  sceptic  ! 

Dost  thou  still  doubt  ? What  I most 
prize  in  woman 

Is  her  affections,  not  her  intellect ! 

The  intellect  is  finite  ; but  the  affections 

Are  infinite,  and  cannot  be  exhausted. 

Compare  me  with  the  great  men  of  the 
earth  ; 

What  am  I ? Why,  a pygmy  among 
giants  ! 

But  if  thou  lovest,  — mark  me  ! I say 
lovest, 

The  greatest  of  thy  sex  excels  thee  not ! 

The  world  of  the  affections  is  thy  world, 

Not  that  of  man’s  ambition.  In  that 
stillness 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.  49 


Which  most  becomes  a woman,  calm  and 
holy, 

Thou  sittest  by  the  fireside  of  the  heart, 
Feeding  its  flame.  The  element  of  fire 
Is  pure.  It  cannot  change  nor  hide  its 
nature, 

But  burns  as  brightly  in  a Gypsy  camp 
As  in  a palace  hall.  Art  thou  con- 
vinced ? 

Free.  Yes,  that  I love  thee,  as  the 
good  love  heaven  ; 

But  not  that  I am  worthy  of  that  heaven. 
How  shall  I more  deserve  it  ? 

Vid.  Loving  more. 

Free.  I cannot  love  thee  more ; my 
heart  is  full. 

Vid.  Then  let  it  overflow,  and  I will 
drink  it, 

As  in  the  summer-time  the  thirsty  sands 
Drink  the  swift  waters  of  the  Manzanares, 
And  still  do  thirst  for  more. 

A Watchman  {in  the  street).  Ave 
Maria 

Purissima  ! ’T  is  midnight  and  serene  ! 

Vid.  Hear’st  thou  that  cry  ? 

Free.  It  is  a hateful  sound, 

To  scare  thee  from  me  ! 

Vid.  As  the  hunter’s  horn 

Doth  scare  the  timid  stag,  or  bark  of 
hounds 

The  moor-fowl  from  his  mate. 

Prec.  • Pray,  do  not  go  ! 

Vid.  I must  away  to  Alcala  to- 
night. 

Think  of  me  when  I am  away. 

Prec.  Fear  not ! 

I have  no  thoughts  that  do  not  think 
of  thee. 

Vid.  {giving  her  a ring).  And  to  re- 
mind thee  of  my  love,  take  this  ; 
A serpent,  emblem  of  Eternity  ; 

A ruby,  — say,  a drop  of  my  heart’s 
blood. 

Prec.  It  is  an  ancient  saying,  that 
the  ruby 

Brings  gladness  to  the  wearer,  and  pre- 
serves 

The  heart  pure,  and,  if  laid  beneath  the 
pillow, 

Drives  away  evil  dreams.  But  then, 
alas  ! 

It  was  a serpent  tempted  Eve  to  sin. 

Vid.  What  convent  of  barefooted 
Carmelites 

Taught  thee  so  much  theology  ? 

Prec.  {laying  her  hand  upon  his 
mouth).  Hush  ! hush  ! 


Good  night  ! and  may  all  holy  angels 
guard  thee  ! 

Vid.  Good  night  ! good  night  ! 
Thou  art  my  guardian  angel  ! 

I have  no  other  saint  than  thou  to  pray 
to  ! 

{He  descends  by  the  balcony.) 

Prec.  Take  care,  and  do  not  hurt  thee. 
Art  thou  safe  ? 

Vid.  {from  the  garden).  Safe  as  my 
love  for  thee  ! But  art  thou 
safe  ? 

Others  can  climb  a balcony  by  moon- 
light 

As  well  as  I.  Pray  shut  thy  window 
close  ; 

I am  jealous  of  the  perfumed  air  of 
night 

That  from  this  garden  climbs  to  kiss  thy 
lips. 

Prec.  {throwing  down  her  handker- 
chief). Thou  silly  child  ! Take 
this  to  blind  thine  eyes. 

It  is  my  benison  ! 

Vid.  And  brings  to  me 

Sweet  fragrance  from  thy  lips,  as  the  soft 
wind 

Wafts  to  the  out-bound  mariner  the 
breath 

Of  the  beloved  land  he  leaves  behind. 

Prec.  Make  not  thy  voyage  long. 

Vid.  To-morrow  night 

Shall  see  me  safe  returned.  Thmi  art  the 
star 

To  guide  me  to  an  anchorage  Good 
night  ! 

My  beauteous  star  ! My  star  of  love, 
good  night ! 

Prec.  Good  night ! 

W atchman  {at  a distance).  Ave  Maria 
Purissima  ! 


Scene  IV.  — An  inn  on  the  road  to  Alcald. 

Baltasar  asleep  on  a bench.  Enter 

Chispa. 

Chispa.  And  here  we  are,  half-way  to 
Alcala,  between  cocks  and  midnight. 
Body  o’  me  i what  an  inn  this  is  ! The 
lights  out,  and  the  landlord  asleep. 
Hola  ! ancient  Baltasar  ! 

Bal.  {waking).  Here  I am. 

Chispa.  Yes,  there  you  are,  like  a one- 
eyed  Alcalde  in  a town  without  inhabi- 
tants. Bring  a light,  and  let  me  have 
supper. 


4 


50 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Bal.  Where  is  your  master  ? 

Chispa.  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about 
him.  We  have  stopped  a moment  to 
breathe  our  horses  ; and,  if  he  chooses  to 
walk  up  and  down  in  the  open  air,  look- 
ing into  the  sky  as  one  who  hears  it 
rain,  that  does  not  satisfy  my  hunger, 
you  know.  But  be  quick,  for  I am  in  a 
hurry,  and  every  man  stretches  his  legs 
according  to  the  length  of  his  coverlet. 
What  have  we  here  ? 

j Bal.  { setting  a light  on  the  table). 
Stewed  rabbit. 

Chispa  {eating).  Conscience  of  Porta- 
legre  ! Stewed  kitten,  you  mean  ! 

Bal.  And  a pitcher  of  Pedro  Ximenes, 
with  a roasted  pear  in  it. 

Chispa  {drinking).  Ancient  Baltasar, 
amigo  ! You  know  how  to  cry  wine  and 
sell  vinegar.  I tell  you  this  is  nothing 
but  Vino  Tin  to  of  La  Mancha,  with  a 
tang  of  the  swine-skin. 

Bal.  I swear  to  you  by  Saint  Simon 
and  Judas,  it  is  all  as  I say. 

Chispa.  And  I swear  to  you  by  Saint 
Peter  and  Saint  Paul,  that  it  is  no  such 
thing.  Moreover,  your  supper  is  like  the 
hidalgo’s  dinner,  very  little  meat  and  a 
great  deal  of  tablecloth. 

Bal.  Ha  ! ha  ! ha  ! 

Chispa.  And  more  noise  than  nuts. 

Bal.  Ha  ! ha  ! ha  ! You  must  have 
your  joke,  Master  Chispa.  But  shall  I 
not  ask  Don  Victorian  in,  to  take  a 
draught  of  the  Pedro  Ximenes  ? 

Chispa.  No  ; you  might  as  well  say, 
“ Don’t  -you  -want  -some  ?”  to  a dead 
man. 

Bal.  Why  does  he  go  so  often  to 
Madrid  ? 

Chispa.  For  the  same  reason  that  he 
eats  no  supper.  He  is  in  love.  Were 
you  ever  in  love,  Baltasar  ? 

Bal.  I was  never  out  of  it,  good 
Chispa.  It  has  been  the  torment  of  my 
life. 

Chispa.  What  ! are  you  on  fire,  too, 
old  hay-stack  ? Why,  we  shall  never  be 
able  to  put  you  out. 

Viet,  {without).  Chispa  ! 

Chispa.  Go  to  bed,  Pero  Grullo,  for 
the  cocks  are  crowing. 

Viet.  Ea  ! Chispa  ! Chispa  ! 

Chispa.  Ea  ! Senor.  Come  with  me, 
ancient  Baltasar,  and  bring  water  for  the 
horses.  I will  pay  for  the  supper  to- 
morrow. {Exeunt. 


Scene  V.  — Victorian’s  chambers  at 

Alcala.  Hypolito  asleep  in  an  arm- 
chair. He  awakes  slowly. 

Hyp.  I must  have  been  asleep  ! ay, 
sound  asleep  ! 

And  it  was  all  a dream.  0 sleep,  sweet 
sleep  ! 

Whatever  form  thou  takest,  thou  art  fair, 
Holding  unto  our  lips  thy  goblet  filled 
Out  of  Oblivion’s  well,  a healing  draught! 
The  candles  have  burned  low ; it  must 
be  late. 

Where  can  Victorian  be  ? Like  Fray 
Carrillo, 

The  only  place  in  which  one  cannot  find 
him 

Is  his  own  cell.  Here’s  his  guitar,  that 
seldom 

Feels  the  caresses  of  its  master’s  hand. 
Open  thy  silent  lips,  sweet  instrument ! 
And  make  dull  midnight  merry  with  a 
song. 

{He  plays  and  sings.) 

Padre  Francisco  ! 

Padre  Francisco  ! 

What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Francisco  ? 
Here  is  a pretty  young  maiden 
Who  wants  to  confess  her  sins  ! 

Open  the  door  and  let  her  come  in, 

I will  shrive  her  from  every  sin. 

{Enter  Victorian.) 

Viet.  Padre  Hypolito  ! Padre  Hypo- 
lito ! 

Hyp.  What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Hy- 
polito ? 

Viet.  Come,  shrive  me  straight  ; for, 
if  love  be  a sin, 

I am  the  greatest  sinner  that  doth  live. 

I will  confess  the  sweetest  of  all  crimes, 
A maiden  wooed  and  won. 

Hyp.  The  same  old  tale 

Of  the  old  woman  in  the  chimney-corner, 
Who,  while  the  pot  boils,  says,  “Come 
here,  my  child ; 

I ’ll  tell  thee  a story  of  my  wedding-day.” 

Viet.  Nay,  listen,  for  my  heart  is  full ; 
so  full 

That  I must  speak. 

Hyp.  Alas  ! that  heart  of  thine 

Is  like  a scene  in  the  old  play  ; the  cur- 
tain 

Rises  to  solemn  music,  and  lo  ! enter 
The  eleven  thousand  virgins  of  Cologne  ! 

Viet.  Nay,  like  the  Sibyl’s  volumes, 
thou  sliouldst  say  ; 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Those  that  remained,  after  the  six  were 
burned, 

Being  held  more  precious  than  the  nine 
together. 

But  listen  to  my  tale.  Dost  thou  re- 
member 

The  Gypsy  girl  we  saw  at  Cordova 
Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  market-place  ? 

Hyp.  Thou  meanest  Preciosa. 

Viet.  Ay,  the  same. 

Thou  knowest  how  her  image  haunted  me 
Long  after  we  returned  to  Alcala. 

She ’s  in  Madrid. 

Hyp.  I know  it. 

Viet.  And  1 ’m  in  love. 

Hyp.  And  therefore  in  Madrid  when 
thou  shouldst  be 
In  Alcala. 

Viet.  0 pardon  me,  my  friend, 

If  I so  long  have  kept  this  secret  from  thee ; 
But  silence  is  the  charm  that  guards  such 
treasures, 

And,  if  a word  be  spoken  ere  the  time, 
They  sink  again,  they  were  not  meant 
for  us. 

Hyp.  Alas  ! alas  ! I see  thou  art  in 
love. 

Love  keeps  the  cold  out  better  than  a 
cloak. 

It  serves  for  food  and  raiment.  Give  a 
Spaniard 

His  mass,  his  olla,  and  his  Dona  Luisa  — 
Thou  knowest  the  proverb.  But  pray 
tell  me,  lover, 

How  speeds  thy  wooing  ? Is  the  maiden 
coy  ? 

Write  her  a song,  beginning  with  an  Ave; 
Sing  as  the  monk  sang  to  the  Virgin 
Mary, 

Ave  ! cujus  ealeem  dare 
Nee  centenni  commendare 
Sciret  Seraph  studio  ! 

Viet.  ' Pray,  do  not  jest ! This  is  no 
time  for  it ! 

I am  in  earnest ! 

Hyp.  Seriously  enamored  ? 

What,  ho  ! The  Primus  of  great  Alcala 
Enamored  of  a Gypsy  ? Tell  me  frankly, 
How  meanest  thou  ? 

Vid.  I mean  it  honestly. 

Hyp.  Surely  thou  wilt  not  marry  her  ! 

Viet.  Why  not  ? 

Hyp.  She  was  betrothed  to  one  Bar- 
tolome, 

If  I remember  lightly,  a young  Gypsy 
Who  danced  with  her  at  Cordova/ 


51 

Viet.  They  quarrelled, 

And  so  the  matter  ended. 

Hyp.  But  in  truth 

Thou  wilt  not  marry  her. 

Viet.  In  truth  I will. 

The  angels  sang  in  heaven  when  she  was 
born  ! 

She  is  a precious  jewel  I have  found 
Among  the  filth  and  rubbish  of  the  world. 
I ’ll  stoop  for  it  ; but  when  I wear  it  here, 
Set  on  my  forehead  like  the  morning 
star, 

The  world  may  wonder,  but  it  will  not 
laugh. 

Hyp.  If  thou  wear’st  nothing  else  upon 
thy  forehead, 

’T  will  be  indeed  a wonder. 

Viet.  Out  upon  thee 

With  thy  unseasonable  jests  ! Pray  tell 
me, 

Is  there  no  virtue  in  the  world  ? 

Hyp.  Not  much. 

What,  think’ st  thou,  is  she  doing  at  this 
moment ; 

Now,  while  we  speak  of  her  ? 

Viet.  She  lies  asleep, 

And  from  her  parted  lips  her  gentle  breath 
Comes  like  the  fragrance  from  the  lips  of 
flowers. 

Her  tender  limbs  are  still,  and  on  her 
breast 

The  cross  she  prayed  to,  ere  she  fell  asleep, 
Rises  and  falls  with  the  soft  tide  of 
dreams, 

Like  a light  barge  safe  moored. 

Hyp.  Which  means,  in  prose, 

She  ’s  sleeping  with  her  mouth  a little 
open  ! 

Viet.  0,  would  I had  the  old  magician’s 
glass 

To  see  her  as  she  lies  in  childlike  sleep  ! 

Hyp.  And  wouldst  thou  venture  ? 

Viet.  Ay,  indeed  I would  ! 

Hyp.  Thou  art  courageous^.  Hast  thou 
e’er  reflected 

How  much  lies  hidden  in  that  one  word, 
now  ? 

Viet.  Yes  ; all  the  awful  mystery  of 
Life  ! 

I oft  have  thought,  my  dear  Hypolito, 
That  could  we,  by  some  spell  of  magic, 
change 

The  world  and  its  inhabitants  to  stone, 
In  the  same  attitudes  they  now  are  in, 
What  fearful  glances  downward  might 
we  cast 

Into  the  hollow  chasms  of  human  life  ! 


52 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


What  groups  should  we  behold  about  the 
death-bed, 

Putting  to  shame  the  group  of  Ndobe  ! 
What  joyful  welcomes,  and  what  sad 
farewells  ! 

What  stony  tears  in  those  congealed  eyes  ! 
What  visible  joy  or  anguish  in  those 

cheeks  ! 

What  bridal  pomps,  and  what  funereal 
shows  ! 

What  foes,  like  gladiators,  fierce  and 
struggling  ! 

What  lovers  with  their  marble  lips  to 
gether  ! 

Hyp.  Ay,  there  it  is  ! and,  if  I were 
in  love, 

That  is  the  very  point  I most  should 
dread. 

This  magic  glass,  these  magic  spells  of 
thine, 

Might  tell  a tale  were  better  left  untold. 
For  instance,  they  might  show  us  thy 
fair  cousin, 

The  Lady  Violante,  bathed  in  tears 
Of  love  and  anger,  like  the  maid  of 
Colchis, 

Whom  thou,  another  faithless  Argonaut, 
Having  won  that  golden  fleece,  a woman’s 
love, 

Desertest  for  this  Glauce. 

Viet.  Hold  thy  peace  ! 

She  cares  not  for  me.  She  may  wed 
another, 

Or  go  into  a convent,  and,  thus  dying, 
Marry  Achilles  in  the  Elysian  Fields. 
Hyp.  (rising).  And  so,  good  night  ! 
Good  morning,  I should  say. 

(Clock  strikes  three. ) 

Hark  ! how  the  loud  and  ponderous  mace 
of  Time 

Knocks  at  the  golden  portals  of  the  day  ! 
And  so,  once  more,  good  night  ! We  ’ll 
speak  more  largely 
Of  Preciosa  when  we  meet  again. 

Get  thee  to  bed,  and  the  magician,  Sleep, 
Shall  show  her  to  thee,  in  his  magic  glass, 
In  all  her  loveliness.  Good  night  ! 

[Exit. 

Viet.  Good  night ! 

But  not  to  bed  ; for  I must  read  awhile. 

( Throws  himself  into  the  arm-choir  which 
Hypolito  has  left,  and  lays  a large  book 
open  upon  his  knees.) 

Must  read,  or  sit  in  revery  and  watch 
The  changing  color  of  the  waves  that 
break 


Upon  the  idle  sea-shore  of  the  mind  ! 
Visions  of  Fame  ! that  once  did  visit  me, 
Making  night  glorious  with  your  smile, 
where  are  ye  ? 

0,  who  shall  give  me,  now  that  ye  are 
gone, 

Juices  of  those  immortal  plants  that  bloom 
Upon  Olympus,  making  us  immortal  ? 

Or  teach  me  where  that  wondrous  man- 
drake grows 

Whose  magic  root,  torn  from  the  earth 
with  groans, 

At  midnight  hour,  can  scare  the  fiends 
away, 

And  make  the  mind  prolific  in  its  fancies  ? 
I have  the  wish,  but  want  the  will,  to 
act  ! 

Souls  of  great  men  departed  ! Ye  whose 
words 

Have  come  to  light  from  the  swift  river 
of  Time, 

Like  Roman  swords  found  in  the  Tagus’ 
bed, 

Where  is  the  strength  to  wield  the  arms 
ye  bore  ? 

From  the  barred  visor  of  Antiquity 
Reflected  shines  the  eternal  light  of  Truth, 
As  from  a mirror  ! All  the  means  of 
action  — 

The  shapeless  masses,  the  materials  — 
Lie  everywhere  about  us.  What  we  need 
Is  the  celestial  fire  to  change  the  flint 
Into  transparent  crystal,  bright  and  clear. 
That  fire  is  genius  ! The  rude  peasant 
sits 

At  evening  in  his  smoky  cot,  and  draws 
With  charcoal  uncouth  figures  on  the 
wall. 

The  son  of  genius  comes,  foot-sore  with 
travel, 

And  begs  a shelter  from  the  inclement 
night. 

He  takes  the  charcoal  from  the  peasant’s 
hand, 

And,  by  the  magic  of  his  touch  at  once 
Transfigured,  all  its  hidden  virtues  shine, 
And,  in  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  clown, 
It  gleams  a diamond  ! Even  thus  trans- 
formed, 

Rude  popular  traditions  and  old  tales 
Shine  as  immortal  poems,  at  the  touch 
Of  some  poor,  houseless,  homeless,  wan- 
dering bard, 

Who  had  but  a night’s  lodging  for  his 
pains. 

But  there  are  brighter  dreams  than  those 
of  Fame, 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


53 


Which  are  the  dreams  of  Love  ! Out  of 
the  heart 

Rises  the  bright  ideal  of  these  dreams, 
As  from  some  woodland  fount  a spirit 
rises 

And  sinks  again  into  its  silent  deeps, 

Ere  the  enamored  knight  can  touch  her 
robe  ! 

*T  is  this  ideal  that  the  soul  of  man, 

Like  the  enamored  knight  beside  the 
fountain, 

Waits  for  upon  the  margin  of  Life’s 
stream  ; 

Waits  to  behold  her  rise  from  the  dark 
waters, 

Clad  in  a mortal  shape  ! Alas  ! how 
many 

Must  wait  in  vain  ! The  stream  flows 
evermore, 

But  from  its  silent  deeps  no  spirit  rises  ! 
Yet  I,  born  under  a propitious  star, 

Have  found  the  bright  ideal  of  my 
dreams. 

Yes  ! she  is  ever  with  me.  I can  feel, 
Here,  as  I sit  at  midnight  and  alone, 

Her  gentle  breathing  ! on  my  breast  can 
feel 

The  pressure  of  her  head  ! God’s  benison 
Rest  ever  on  it  ! Close  those  beauteous 
eyes, 

Sweet  Sleep  ! and  all  the  flowers  that 
bloom  at  night 

With  balmy  lips  breathe  in  her  ears  my 
name  ! 

( Gradually  sinks  asleep.) 

ACT  II. 

Scene  I.  — Preciosa’s  chamber.  Morning. 

Preciosa  and  Angelica. 

Prec.  Why  will  you  go  so  soon  ? Stay 
yet  awhile. 

The  poor  too  often  turn  away  unheard 
From  hearts  tha  t shut  against  them  with 
a sound 

That  will  be  heard  in  heaven.  Pray, 
tell  me  more 

Of  your  adversities.  Keep  nothing  from 
me. 

What  is  your  landlord’s  name  ? 

Ang.  The  Count  of  Lara. 

Prec.  The  Coun  t of  Lara  ? O,  beware 
that  man  ! 

Mistrust  his  pity,  — hold  no  parley  with 
him  ! 


And  rather  die  an  outcast  in  the  streets 

Than  touch  his  gold. 

Ang.  You  know  him,  then  ! 

Prec.  As  much 

As  any  woman  may,  and  yet  be  pure. 

As  you  would  keep  your  name  without  a 
blemish, 

Beware  of  him  ! 

Ang.  Alas  ! what  can  I do  ? 

I cannot  choose  my  friends.  Each  word 
of  kindness, 

Come  whence  it  may,  is  welcome  to  th<> 
poor. 

Prec.  Make  me  your  friend.  A girl 
so  young  and  fair 

Should  have  no  friends  but  those  of  her 
own  sex. 

What  is  your  name  ? 

Ang.  Angelica. 

Prec.  That  name 

Was  given  you,  that  you  might  be  an 
angel 

To  her  who  bore  you  ! When  your  in- 
fant smile 

Made  her  home  Paradise,  you  were  her 
angel. 

0,  be  an  angel  still ! She  needs  that 
smile. 

So  long  as  you  are  innocent,  fear  nothing. 

No  one  can  harm  you  ! I am  a poor 
girl, 

Whom  chance  has  taken  from  the  public 
streets. 

I have  no  other  shield  than  mine  own 
virtue. 

That  is  the  charm  which  has  protected 
me  ! 

Amid  a thousand  perils,  I have  worn  it 

Here  on  my  heart  ! It  is  my  guardian 
angel. 

Ang.  {rising).  I thank  you  for  this 
counsel,  dearest  lady. 

Prec.  Thank  me  by  following  it. 

Ang.  Indeed  I will. 

Prec.  Pray,  do  not  go.  I have  much 
more  to  say. 

Ang.  My  mother  is  alone.  I dare  not 
leave  her. 

Prec.  Some  other  time,  then,  when 
we  meet  again. 

You  must  not  go  away  with  words  alone. 

( Gives  her  a purse.) 

Take  this.  Would  it  were  more. 

Ang.  J thank  you,  lady. 

Prec.  No  thanks.  To-morrow  come 
to  me  again. 


54 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


I dance  to-night,  — perhaps  for  the  last 
time. 

But  what  I gain,  I promise  shall  be  yours, 

If  that  can  save  you  from  the  Count  of 
Lara. 

Ang.  0,  my  dear  lady  ! how  shall  I 
be  grateful 

For  so  much  kindness  ? 

Free.  1 deserve  no  thanks, 

Thank  Heaven,  not  me. 

Ang.  Both  Heaven  and  you. 

Prec.  Farewell. 

Remember  that  you  come  again  to- 
morrow. 

Ang.  I will.  And  may  the  Blessed 
Virgin  guard  you, 

And  all  good  angels.  [Exit. 

Free.  May  they  guard  thee  too, 

And  all  the  poor  ; for  they  have  need  of 
angels. 

Now  bring  me,  dear  Dolores,  my  bas- 
quina, 

My  richest  maja  dress, — my  dancing 
dress, 

And  my  most  precious  jewels  ! Make 
me  look 

Fairer  than  night  e’er  saw  me  ! I ’ve  a 
prize 

To  win  this  day,  worthy  of  Preciosa  ! 

( Enter  Beltran  Cruzado.) 

Cruz.  Ave  Maria  ! 

Free.  0 God  ! my  evil  genius  ! 

What  seekest  thou  here  to-day  ? 

Cruz.  Thyself,  - — my  child. 

Prec.  What  is  thy  will  with  me  ? 

Cruz.  Gold  ! gold  ! 

Prec.  I gave  thee  yesterday  ; I have 
no  more. 

Cruz.  The  gold  of  the  Busne,  — give 
me  his  gold  ! 

Prec.  I gave  the  last  in  charity  to- 
day. 

Cruz.  That  is  a foolish  lie. 

Prec.  It  is  the  truth. 

Cruz.  Curses  upon  thee  ! Thou  art 
not  my  child  ! 

Hast  thou  given  gold  away,  and  not  to 
me  ? 

Not  to  thy  father  ? To  whom,  then  ? 

Prec.  To  one 

Who  needs  it  moi*e. 

Cruz.  No  one  can  need  it  more. 

Prec.  Thou  art  not  poor. 

Cruz.  What,  1 , who  lurk  about 

In  dismal  suburbs  and  unwholesome 
lanes  ; 


I,  who  am  housed  worse  than  the  galley 
slave  ; 

I,  who  am  fed  worse  than  the  kennelled 
hound  ; 

I,  who  am  clothed  in  rags,  — Beltran 
Cruzado,  — 

Not  poor  ! 

Prec.  Thou  hast  a stout  heart  and 
strong  hands. 

Thou  canst  supply  thy  wants ; what 
wouldst  thou  more  ? 

Cruz.  The  gold  of  the  Busne  ! give 
me  his  gold  ! 

Prec.  Beltran  Cruzado  ! hear  me  once 
for  all. 

I speak  the  truth.  So  long  as  I had  gold, 
I gave  it  to  thee  freely,  at  all  times, 
Never  denied  thee  ; never  had  a wish 
But  to  fulfil  thine  own.  Now  go  in 
peace  ! 

Be  merciful,  be  patient,  and  erelong 
Thou  shalt  have  more. 

Cruz.  And  if  I have  it  not, 

Thou  shalt  no  longer  dwell  here  in  rich 
chambers, 

Wear  silken  dresses,  feed  on  dainty  food, 
And  live  in  idleness  ; but  go  with  me, 
Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  public  streets, 
And  wander  wild  again  o’er  held  and 
fell  ; 

For  here  we  stay  not  long. 

Prec.  What  ! march  again  ? 

Cruz.  Ay,  with  all  speed.  I hate  the 
crowded  town  ! 

I cannot  breathe  shut  up  within  its 
gates  ! 

Air,  — I want  air,  and  sunshine,  and 
blue  sky, 

The  feeling  of  the  breeze  upon  my  face, 
The  feeling  of  the  turf  beneath  my  feet, 
And  no  walls  but  the  far-off  mountain- 
tops. 

Then  I am  free  and  strong,  — once  more 
myself, 

Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the  Gales  ! 

Prec.  God  speed  thee  on  thy  march  ! 
— I cannot  go. 

Cruz.  Bern  ember  who  I am,  and  who 
thou  art ! 

Be  silent  and  obey  ! Yet  one  thing 
more. 

Bartolome  Roman  — 

Prec.  (with  emotion).  0,  I beseech 
thee  ! 

If  my  obedience  and  blameless  life, 

If  my  humility  and  meek  submission 
i In  all  things  hitherto,  can  move  in  thee 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


55 


One  feeling  ot  compassion  ; if  thou  art 
Indeed  my  father,  and  canst  trace  in  me 
One  look  of  her  who  bore  me,  or  one  tone 
That  doth  remind  thee  of  her,  let  it  plead 
In  my  behalf,  who  am  a feeble  girl, 

Too  feeble  to  resist,  and  do  not  force  me 
To  wed  that  man  ! I am  afraid  of  him  ! 
I do  not  love  him  ! On  my  knees  I beg 
thee 

To  use  no  violence,  nor  do  in  haste 
What  cannot  be  undone  ! 

Cruz.  0 child,  child,  child  ! 

Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  secret,  as  a bird 
Betrays  her  nest,  by  striving  to  conceal 
it. 

I will  not  leave  thee  here  in  the  great  city 
To  be  a grandee’s  mistress.  Make  thee 
ready 

To  go  with  us ; and  until  then  remember 
A watchful  eye  is  on  thee.  [Exit. 

Free.  Woe  is  me  ! 

I have  a strange  misgiving  in  my  heart  ! 
But  that  one  deed  of  charity  I ’ll  do, 
Befall  what  may  ; they  cannot  take  that 
from  me. 


Scene.  II  — A room  in  the  Archbishop’s 
Palace.  The  Archbishop  and  a Cardi- 
nal seated . 

Arch.  Knowing  how  near  it  touched 
the  public  morals, 

And  that  our  age  is  grown  corrupt  and 
rotten 

By  such  excesses,  we  have  sent  to  Rome, 
Beseeching  that  his  Holiness  would  aid 
In  curing  the  gross  surfeit  of  the  time, 
By  seasonable  stop  put  here  in  Spain 
To  bull-fights  and  lewd  dances  on  the 
stage. 

All  this  you  know. 

Card.  Know  and  approve. 

Arch.  And  further, 

That,  by  a mandate  from  his  Holiness, 
The  first  have  been  suppressed. 

Card.  I trust  forever. 

It  was  a cruel  sport. 

Arch.  A barbarous  pastime, 

Disgraceful  to  the  land  that  calls  itself 
Most  Catholic  and  Christian. 

Card.  Yet  the  people 

Murmur  at  this ; and,  if  the  public 
dances 

Should  be  condemned  upon  too  slight 
occasion, 

Worse  ills  might  follow  than  the  ills  we 
cure. 


As  Panem  et  Cir censes  was  the  cry 
Among  the  Roman  populace  of  old, 

So  Pan  y Toros  is  the  cry  in  Spain. 
Hence  I would  act  advisedly  herein  ; 
And  therefore  have  induced  your  Grace 
to  see 

These  national  dances,  ere  we  interdict 
them. 

( Enter  a Servant. ) 

Serv.  The  dancing-girl,  and  with  her 
the  musicians 

Your  Grace  was  pleased  to  order,  wait 
without. 

Arch.  Bid  them  come  in.  Now  shall 
your  eyes  behold 

In  what  angelic,  yet  voluptuous  shape 
The  Devil  came  to  tempt  Saint  Anthony. 

{Enter  Preciosa,  with  a mantle  thrown 

over  her  head.  She  advances  slowly , in 

modest , half -timid  attitude.) 

Card,  {aside).  O,  what  a fair  and 
ministering  angel 

Was  lost  to  heaven  when  this  sweet 
woman  fell  ! 

Prec.  {kneeling  before  the  Archbish- 
op). I have  obeyed  the  order  of 
your  Grace. 

If  I intrude  upon  your  better  hours, 

I proffer  this  excuse,  and  here  beseech 
Your  holy  benediction. 

Arch.  May  God  bless  thee, 

And  lead  thee^to  abetter  life.  Arise. 

Card,  {aside).  Her  acts  are  modest, 
and  her  words  discreet  ! 

I did  not  look  for  this  ! Come  hither, 
child. 

Is  thy  name  Preciosa  ? 

Prec.  Thus  I am  called. 

Co.rd.  That  is  a Gypsy  name.  Who 
is  thy  father  ? 

Prec.  Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the 
Cales. 

Arch.  I have  a dim  remembrance  of 
that  man  ; 

He  was  a bold  and  reckless  character, 

A sun -burnt  Ishmael  ! 

Card.  Dost  thou  remember 

Thy  earlier  days  ? 

Prec.  Yes  ; by  the  Darro’s  side 

My  childhood  passed.  I can  remember 
still 

The  river,  and  the  mountains  capped 
with  snow  ; 

The  villages,  where,  yet  a little  child, 

I told  the  traveller’s  fortune  in  the 
street  ; 


56 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


The  smuggler’s  horse,  the  brigand  and 
the  shepherd  ; 

The  march  across  the  moor  ; the  halt  at 
noon  ; 

The  red  fire  of  the  evening  camp,  that 
lighted 

The  forest  where  we  slept : and,  further 
back, 

As  in  a dream  or  in  some  former  life, 
Gardens  and  palace  walls. 

Arch.  ’T  is  the  Alhambra, 

Under  whose  towers  the  Gypsy  camp  was 
pitched. 

But  the  time  wears ; and  we  would  see 
-thee  dance. 

Prec.  Your  Grace  shall  be  obeyed. 
{She  lays  aside  her  mantilla . The  music 
of  the  cachucha  is  played,  and  the  dance 
begins.  The  Archbishop  and  the  Car- 
dinal look  on  with  gravity  and  an  oc- 
casional frown  ; then  make  signs  to  each 
other  ; and,  as  the  dance  continues,  be- 
come more  and  morepleased  and  excited  ; 
and  at  length  rise  from  their  seats,  throw 
their  caps  in  the  air,  and  applaud  vehe- 
mently as  the  scene  closes. ) 

Scene  III.  — The  Prado.  A long  ave- 
nue of  trees  leading  to  the  gate  of  Ato- 
cha.  On  the  right  the  dome  and  spires  of 
a convent.  A fountain.  Evening,  Don 
Carlos  and  Hypolito  meeting. 

Don  C.  Hola ! good  evening,  Don 
Hypolito. 

Hyp.  And  a good  evening  to  my 
friend,  Don  Carlos. 

Some  lucky  star  has  led  my  steps  this 
way.1 

I was  in  search  of  you. 

Don  C.  Command  me  always. 

Hyp.  Do  you  remember,  in  Quevedo’s 
Dreams, 

The  miser,  who,  upon  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment, 

Asks  if  his  money-bags  would  rise  ? 

Don  C.  I do  ; 

But  what  of  that  ? 

Hyp.  I am  that  wretched  man. 

Don  C.  You  mean  to  tell  me  yours 
have  risen  empty  ? 

Hyp.  And  amen  ! said  my  Cid  the 
Cam  pea  dor. 

Don  C.  Pray,  how  much  need  you  ? 
Hyp.  Some  half-dozen  ounces, 

Which,  with  due  interest  — 

Don  C.  {giving  his  purse).  What,  am 
I a Jew 


To  put  my  moneys  out  at  usury  ? 

Here  is  my  purse. 

Hyp.  Thank  you.  A pretty  purse. 

Made  by  the  hand  of  some  fair  Madri- 
leha  ; 

Perhaps  a keepsake. 

Don  O.  No,  ’t  is  at  your  service. 

Hyp.  Thank  you  again.  Lie  there, 
good  Chrysostom, 

And  with  thy  golden  mouth  remind  me 
often, 

I am  the  debtor  of  my  friend. 

Don  G.  But  tell  me. 

Come  you  to-day  from  Alcala  ? 

Hyp.  This  moment. 

Don  C.  And  pray,  how  fares  the  brave 
Victorian  ? 

Hyp.  Indifferent  well ; that  is  to  say, 
not  well. 

A damsel  has  ensnared*  him  with  the 
glances 

Of  her  dark,  roving  eyes,  as  herdsmen 
catch 

A steer  of  Andalusia  with  a lazo. 

He  is  in  love. 

Don  C.  And  is  it  faring  ill 

To  be  in  love  ? 

Hyp.  In  his  case  very  ill. 

Don  C.  Why  so  ? 

Hyp.  For  many  reasons.  First  and 
foremost, 

Because  he  is  in  love  with  an  ideal  ; 

A creature  of  his  own  imagination  ; 

A child  of  air  ; an  echo  of  his  heart ; 

And,  like  a lily  on  a river  floating, 

She  floats  upon  the  river  of  his  thoughts ! 

Don  C.  A common  thing  with  poets. 
But  who  is 

This  floating  lily  ? For,  in  fine,  some 
woman, 

Some  living  woman,  — not  a mere 
ideal,  — 

Must  wear  the  outward  semblance  of  his 
thought. 

Who  is  it  ? Tell  me. 

Hyp.  Well,  it  is  a woman  ! 

But,  look  you,  from  the  coffer  of  his  heart 

Fie  brings  forth  precious  jewels  to  adorn 
her, 

As  pious  priests  adorn  some  favorite 
saint 

With  gems  and  gold,  until  at  length  she 
gleams 

One  blaze  of  glory.  Without  these,  you 
know, 

And  the  priest’s  benediction,  ’t  is  a doll. 

Don  C.  Well,  well ! who  is  this  doll? 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.  57 


' Hyp.  Why,  who  do  you  think  ? 

| Don  C.  His  cousin  Yiolante. 

Hyp.  Guess  again. 

I To  ease  his  laboring  heart,  in  the  last 
storm 

He  threw  her  overboard,  with  all  her 
ingots.  • 

Don  C.  I cannot  guess ; so  tell  me 
who  it  is. 

Hyp.  Not  I. 

Don  C.  Why  not  ? 

Hyp.  (• mysteriously ).  Why  ? Because 
Mari  Franca 

Was  married  four  leagues  out  of  Sala- 
manca ! 

Don  C.  Jesting  aside,  who  is  it  ? 

Hyp.  Preciosa. 

Don  0.  Impossible  ! The  Count  of 
Lara  tells  me 

She  is  not  virtuous. 

Hyp.  Did  I say  she  was  ? 

The  Roman  Emperor  Claudius  had  a wife 

Whose  name  was  Messalina,  as  I think  ; 

Valeria  Messalina  was  her  name. 

But  hist ! I see  him  yonder  through  the 
trees, 

Walking  as  in  a dream. 

Don  C.  He  comes  this  way. 

Hyp.  It  has  been  truly  said  by  some 
wise  man, 

That  money,  grief,  and  love  cannot  be 
hidden. 

{Enter  Victorian  in  front.) 

Viet.  Where’er  thy  step  has  passed  is 
holy  ground  ! 

These  groves  are  sacred  ! 1 behold  thee 

walking 

Under  these  shadowy  trees,  where  we 
have  walked 

At  evening,  and  I feel  thy  presence  now  ; 

Feel  that  the  place  has  taken  a charm 
from  thee, 

And  is  forever  hallowed. 

Hyp.  Mark  him  well  ! 

See  how  he  strides  away  with  lordly 
air, 

Like  that  odd  guest  of  stone,  that  grim 
Commander 

Who  conies  to  sup  with  Juan  in  the 
play. 

Don  C.  What  ho  ! Victorian  ! 

Hyp.  Wilt  thou  sup  with  us  ? 

Viet.  Hola ! amigos  ! Faith,  I did 
not  see  you. 

How  fares  Don  Carlos  ? 

Don  C.  At  your  service  ever. 


Viet.  How  is  that  young  and  green- 
eyed  Gaditana 
That  you  both  wot  of  ? 

Don  C.  Ay,  soft,  emerald  eyes  ! 

She  has  gone  back  to  Cadiz. 

Hyp.  Ay  de  mi  ! 

Viet.  You  are  much  to  blame  for  let- 
ting her  go  back. 

A pretty  girl  ; and  in  her  tender  eyes 
Just  that  soft  shade  of  green  we  some- 
times see 
In  evening  skies. 

Hyp.  But,  speaking  of  green  eyes. 
Are  thine  green  ? 

Viet.  Not  a whit.  Why  so  ? 

Hyp.  I think 

The  slightest  shade  of  green  would  be 
becoming, 

For  thou  art  jealous. 

Viet.  No,  I am  not  jealous. 

Hyp.  Thou  shouldst  be. 

Viet.  Why  ? 

Hyp.  Because  thou  art  in  love. 

And  they  who  are  in  love  are  always 
jealous. 

Therefore  thou  shouldst  be. 

Viet.  Marry,  is  that  ail  ? 

Farewell ; I am  in  haste.  Farewell,  Don 
Carlos. 

Thou  sayest  I should  be  jealous  ? 

Hyp.  Ay,  in  truth 

I fear  there  is  reason.  Be  upon  thy 
guard. 

I hear  it  whispered  that  the  Count  of 
Lara 

Lays  siege  to  the  same  citadel. 

Viet.  Indeed  ! 

Then  he  will  have  his  labor  for  his 
pains. 

Hyp.  He  does  not  think  so,  and  Don 
Carlos  tells  me 
He  boasts  of  his  success. 

Viet.  How ’s  this,  Don  Carlos  ? 

Don  C.  Some  hints  of  it  I heard  from 
his  own  lips. 

He  spoke  but  lightly  of  the  lady’s  vir- 
tue, 

As  a gay  man  might  speak. 

Viet.  Death  and  damnation  ! 

I ’ll  cut  his  lying  tongue  out  of  his  mouth, 
And  throw  it  to  my  dog  ! But  no,  no, 
no  ! 

This  cannot  be.  You  jest,  indeed  you 
jest. 

Trifle  with  me  no  more.  For  otherwise 
We  are  no  longer  friends.  And  so,  fare- 
well ! [Exit. 


58 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Hyp.  Now  what  a coil  is  here  ! The 
Avenging  Child 

Hunting  the  traitor  Quadros  to  his  death, 

And  the  great  Moor  Calaynos,  when  he 
rode 

To  Paris  for  the  ears  of  Oliver, 

Were  nothing  to  him  ! 0 hot-headed 

youth  ! 

But  come  ; we  will  not  follow.  Let  us 
join 

The  crowd  that  pours  into  the  Prado. 
There 

We  shall  find  merrier  company  ; I see 

The  Marialonzos  and  the  Almavivas, 

And  fifty  fans,  that  beckon  me  already. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  IV.  — Preciosa’s  chamber.  She 
is  sitting , with  a book  in  her  hand,  near 
a table,  on  which  are  flowers.  A bird 
singing  in  its  cage.  The  Count  of  Lara 
enters  behind  unperceived . 

Tree,  {reads). 

All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart ! 

Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art ! 

Heigho  ! I wish  Victorian  were  here. 

I know  not  what  it  is  makes  me  so  rest- 
less ! 

( The  bird  sings. ) 

Thou  little  prisoner  with  thy  motley 
coat, 

That  from  thy  vaulted,  wiry  dungeon 
singest, 

Like  thee  I am  a captive,  and,  like  thee, 

I have  a gentle  jailer.  Lack-a-day  ! 

All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart ! 

Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art ! 

All  this  throbbing,  all  this  aching, 
Evermore  shall  keep  thee  waking, 

For  a heart  in  sorrow  breaking 
Thinketh  ever  of  its  smart  ! 

Thou  speakest  truly,  poet  ! and  me- 
thinks 

More  hearts  are  breaking  in  this  world  of 
ours 

Than  one  would  say.  In  distant  vil- 
lages 

And  solitudes  remote,  where  winds  have 
wafted 

The  barbed  seeds  of  love,  or  birds  of  pas- 
sage 

Scattered  them  in  their  flight,  do  they 
take  root, 

And  grow  in  silence,  and  in  silence  per- 
ish. 


Who  hears  the  falling  of  the  forest  leaf  ? 
Or  who  takes  note  of  every  flower  that 
dies  ? 

Heigho  ! I wish  Victorian  would  come. 
Dolores  ! 

( Turns  to  lay  down  her  book,  and  perceives 
the  Count.  ) 

Ha  ! 

Lara.  Senora,  pardon  me  ! 

Prec.  How  ’s  this  ? Dolores  ! 

Lara.  Pardon  me  — 

Prec.  Dolores ! 

Lara.  Be  not  alarmed  ; I found  no 
one  in  waiting. 

If  I have  been  too  bold  — 

Prec.  burning  her  back  upon  him). 
You  are  too  bold  ! 

Retire  ! retire,  and  leave  me  ! 

Lara.  My  dear  lady, 

First  hear  me  ! I beseech  you,  let  me 
speak  ! 

’T  is  for  your  good  I come. 

Prec.  {turning  toward  him  with  indig- 
nation). Begone  ! begone  ! 

You  are  the  Count  of  Lara,  but  your 
deeds 

Would  make  the  statues  of  your  ancestors 
Blush  on  their  tombs  ! Is  it  Castilian 
honor, 

Is  it  Castilian  pride,  to  steal  in  here 
Upon  a friendless  girl,  to  do  her  wrong  ? 

0 shame  ! shame  ! shame  ! that  you,  a 

nobleman, 

Should  be  so  little  noble  in  your  thoughts 
As  to  send  jewels  here  to  win  my  love, 
And  think  to  buy  my  honor  with  your 
gold  ! 

1 have  no  words  to  tell  you  how  I scorn 

you  ! 

Begone  ! The  sight  of  you  is  hateful  to 
me  ! 

Begone,  I say  ! 

Lara.  Be  calm  ; I will  not  harm  you. 
Prec.  Because  you  dare  not. 

Lara.  * I dare  anything  ! 

Therefore  beware  ! You  are  deceived  in 
me. 

In  this  false  world,  we  do  not  always 
know 

Who  are  our  friends  and  who  our  ene- 
mies. 

We  all  have  enemies,  and  all  need  friends. 
Even  you,  fair  Preciosa,  here  at  court 
Have  foes,  who  seek  to  wrong  you. 

prec.  If  to  this 

I owe  the  honor  of  the  present  visit, 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


59 


You  might  have  spared  the  coming. 
Having  spoken, 

Once  more  I beg  you,  leave  me  to  my- 
self. 

Lara.  I thought  it  but  a friendly  part 
to  tell  you 

What  strange  reports  are  current  here  in 
town. 

For  my  own  self,  1 do  not  credit  them  ; 

But  there  are  many  who,  not  knowing 
you, 

Will  lend  a readier  ear. 

Prec.  There  was  no  need 

That  you  should  take  upon  yourself  the 
* duty 

Of  telling  me  these  tales. 

Lara.  Malicious  tongues 

Are  ever  busy  with  your  name. 

Prec.  Alas  ! 

I ’ve  no  protectors.  I am  a poor  girl, 

Exposed  to  insults  and  unfeeling  jests. 

They  wound  me,  yet  I cannot  shield 
myself. 

I give  no  cause  for  these  reports.  I live 

Retired  ; am  visited  by  none. 

Lara.  By  none  ? 

0,  then,  indeed,  you  are  much  wronged ! 

Prec.  How  mean  you  ? 

Lara.  Nay,  nay ; I will  not  wound 
your  gentle  soul 

By  the  report  of  idle  tales. 

Prec.  Speak  out  ! 

What  are  these  idle  tales  ? You  need 
not  spare  me. 

Lara.  I will  deal  frankly  with  you. 

* Pardon  me  ; 

This  window,  as  I think,  looks  toward 
the  street, 

A.nd  this  into  the  Prado,  does  it  not  ? 

In  yon  high  house,  beyond  the  garden 
wall, — 

You  see  the  roof  there  just  above  the 
trees, — 

There  lives  a friend,  who  told  me  yester- 
day, 

That  on  a certain  night,  — be  not  of- 
fended 

If  I too  plainly  speak,  — he  saw  a man 

Climb  to  your  chamber  window.  You 
are  silent  ! 

I would  not  blame  you,  being  young  and 
fair  — 

\He  tries  to  embrace  her.  She  starts  back, 

and  draws  a dagger  from  her  bosom. ) 

Prec.  Beware  ! beware  ! I am  a Gypsy 
girl  f 


Lay  not  your  hand  upon  me.  One  step 
nearer 

And  I will  strike  ! 

Lara.  Pray  you,  put  up  that  dagger. 
Fear  not. 

Prec.  I do  not  fear.  I have  a heart 
In  whose  strength  I can  trust. 

Lara.  Listen  to  me. 

I come  here  as  your  friend,  — I am  your 
friend,  — 

And  by  a single  word  can  put  a stop 
To  all  those  idle  tales,  and  make  your 
name 

Spotless  as  lilies  are.  Here  on  my  knees, 
Fair  Preciosa ! on  my  knees  I swear, 

I love  you  even  to  madness,  and  that 
love 

Has  driven  me  to  break  the  rules  of  cus- 
tom. 

And  force  myself  unasked  into  your 
presence. 

(Victorian  enters  behind.) 

Prec.  Rise,  Count  of  Lara  ! That  is 
not  the  place 

For  such  as  you  are.  It  becomes  you 
not 

To  kneel  before  me.  I am  strangely 
moved 

To  see  one  of  your  rank  thus  low  and 
humbled ; 

For  your  sake  I will  put  aside  all  an- 
ger, 

All  unkind  feeling,  all  dislike,  and 
speak 

In  gentleness,  as  most  becomes  a woman, 
And  as  my  heart  now  prompts  me.  I 
no  more 

Will  hate  you,  for  all  hate  is  painful  to 
me. 

But  if,  without  offending  modesty 
And  that  reserve  which  is  a woman’s 
glory, 

T may  speak  freely,  I will  teach  my  heart 
To  love  you. 

Lara.  0 sweet  angel  ! 

Prec.  Ay,  in  truth, 

Far  better  than  you  love  yourself  or  me. 

Lara.  Give  me  some  sign  of  this,  — 
the  slightest  token. 

Let  me  but  kiss  your  hand  ! 

Prec.  Nay,  come  no  nearer. 

The  words  I utter  are  its  sign  and  token. 
Misunderstand  me  not  ! Be  not  de- 
ceived ! 

The  love  wherewith  I love  you  is  not 
such 


60 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


As  you  would  offer  me.  For  you  come 
here 

To  take  from  me  the  only  thing  I have, 
My  honor.  You  are  wealthy,  you  have 
friends 

And  kindred,  and  a thousand  pleasant 
hopes 

That  fill  your  heart  with  happiness ; 
but  I 

Am  poor,  and  friendless,  having  hut  one 
treasure, 

And  you  would  take  that  from  me,  and 
for  what  ? 

To  flatter  your  own  vanity,  and  make 
me 

What  you  would  most  despise.  0 sir, 
such  love, 

That  seeks  to  harm  me,  cannot  he  true 
love. 

Indeed  it  cannot.  But  my  love  for  you 
Is  of  a different  kind.  It  seeks  your 
good. 

It  is  a holier  feeling.  It  rebukes 
Your  earthly  passion,  your  unchaste 
desires, 

And  bids  you  look  into  your  heart,  and 
see 

How  you  do  wrong  that  better  nature  in 
you, 

And  grieve  your  soul  with  sin. 

Lara.  I swear  to  you, 

I would  not  harm  you  ; I would  only 
love  you. 

I would  not  take  your  honor,  but  restore 
it, 

And  in  return  I ask  but  some  slight 
mark 

Of  your  affection.  If  indeed  you  love 
me, 

As  you  confess  you  do,  0 let  me  thus 
With  this  embrace  — 

Viet,  (rushing  forward) . Hold  ! hold ! 
This  is  too  much. 

What  means  this  outrage  ? 

.Lara.  First,  what  right  have  you 
To  question  thus  a nobleman  of  Spain  ? 

Viet.  I too  am  noble,  and  you  are  no 
more  ! 

Out  of  my  sight  ! 

Lara.  Are  you  the  master  here  ? 

Viet.  Ay,  here  and  elsewhere,  when 
the  wrong  of  others 
9ives  me  the  right  ! 

Tree,  (to  Lara).  Go  ! I beseech  you, 
go  ! 

Viet.  I shall  have  business  with  you, 
Count,  anon  ! 


Lara.  You  cannot  come  too  soon  ! 

[Exit, 

Prec.  Victorian ! 

0,  we  have  been  betrayed  ! 

Viet.  Ha  ! ha  ! betrayed  ! 

’T  is  I have  been  betrayed,  not  we  ! — not 
we  ! 

Prec.  Dost  thou  imagine  — 

Viet.  I imagine  nothing  ; 

I see  how  ’t  is  thou  wildest  the  time  away 
When  I am  gone  ! 

Prec.  0 speak  not  in  that  tone  ] 

It  wounds  me  deeply. 

Viet.  ’T  was  not  meant  to  flatter. 
Prec.  Too  well  thou  knowest  the  pres- 
ence of  that  man 
Is  hateful  to  me  ! 

Viet.  Yet  I saw  thee  stand 

And  listen  to  him,  when  he  told  his  love. 
Prec.  I did  not  heed  his  words. 

Viet.  Indeed  thou  didst, 

And  answeredst  them  with  love. 

Prec.  Hadst  thou  heard  all  — 

Viet.  I heard  enough. 

Prec.  Be  not  so  angry  with  me. 

Viet.  I am  not  angry  ; I am  very 
calm. 

Prec.  If  thou  wilt  let  me  speak  — 
Viet.  Nay,  say  no  more. 

I know  too  much  already.  Thou  art 
false  ! 

I do  not  like  these  Gypsy  marriages  J 
Where  is  the  ring  I gave  thee  ? 

Prec.  In  my  casket. 

Viet.  There  let  it  rest  ! I would  not 
have  thee  wear  it  : 

I thought  thee  spotless,  and  thou  art 
polluted  ! 

Prec.  I call  the  Heavens  to  witness  — 
Viet.  Nay,  nay,  nay  ! 

Take  not  the  name  of  Heaven  upon  thy 
lips  ! 

They  are  forsworn  ! 

Prec.  Victorian  ! dear  Victorian  ! 
Viet.  I gave  up  all  for  thee  ; myself, 
my  fame, 

My  hopes  of  fortune,  ay,  my  very  soul ! 
And  thou  hast  been  my  ruin  ! Now,  go 
on  ! 

Laugh  at  my  folly  with  thy  paramour, 
And,  sitting  on  the  Count  of  Lara’s  knee, 
Say  what  a poor,  fond  fool  Victorian 
was  ! 

(He  casts  her  from  him  and  rushes  out.) 
Prec.  And  this  from  thee  ! 

(Scene  closes.) 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.  61 


Scene  V.  — The  Count  of  Lara’s  rooms. 
Enter  the  Count. 

Lara.  There  ’s  nothing  in  this  world 
so  sweet  as  love, 

And  next  to  love  the  sweetest  thing  is 
hate  ! 

I 've  learned  to  hate,  and  therefore  ain 
revenged. 

A silly  girl  to  play  the  prude  with  me  ! 

The  fire  that  I have  kindled  — 

( Enter  Francisco.  ) 

Well,  Francisco, 

What  tidings  from  Don  J uan  ? 

Fran.  Good,  my  lord  ; 

He  will  be  present. 

Lara.  And  the  Duke  of  Lermos  ? 

Fran.  Was  not  at  home. 

Lara.  How  with  the  rest  ? 

Fran.  I ’ve  found 

The  men  you  wanted.  They  will  all  be 
there, 

And  at  the  given  signal  raise  a whirlwind 

Of  such  discordant  noises,  that  the  dance 

Must  cease  for  lack  of  music. 

Lara.  Bravely  done. 

Ah  ! little  dost  thou  dream,  sweet  Pre- 
ciosa, 

What  lies  in  wait  for  thee.  Sleep  shall 
not  close 

Thine  eyes  this  night ! Give  me  my 
cloak  and  sword.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  VI.  — A retired  spot  beyond  the 

city  gates.  Enter  Victorian  and  Hy- 

POLITO. 

Viet.  0 shame  ! 0 shame  ! Why  do 
I walk  abroad 

By  daylight,  when  the  very  sunshine 
mocks  me, 

And  voices,  and  familiar  sights  and 
sounds 

Cry,  “Hide  thyself!”  0 what  a thin 
partition 

Doth  shut  out  from  the  curious  world 
the  knowledge 

Of  evil  deeds  that  have  been  done  in 
darkness ! 

Disgrace  has  many  tongues.  My  fears 
are  windows, 

Through  which  all  eyes  seem  gazing. 
Every  face 

Expresses  some  suspicion  of  my  shame, 

And  in  derision  seems  to  smile  at  me  ! 

Hyp.  Did  I not  caution  thee  ? Did  I 
not  tell  thee 

I was  but  half  persuaded  of  her  virtue  ? 


Viet.  And  yet,  Hypolito,  we  may  be 
wrong, 

We  may  be  over-hasty  in  condemning  ! 

The  Count  of  Lara  is  a cursed  villain. 

Hyp.  And  therefore  is  she  cursed,  lov- 
ing him. 

Viet.  She  does  not  love  him  ! ’T  is 
for  gold  ! for  gold  ! 

Hyp.  Ay,  but  remember,  in  the  pub- 
lic streets 

He  shows  a golden  ring  the  Gypsy  gave 
him, 

A serpent  with  a ruby  in  its  mouth. 

Viet.  She  had  that  ring  from  me  ! 
God  ! she  is  false  ! 

But  I will  be  revenged  ! The  hour  is 
passed. 

Where  stays  the  coward  ? 

Hyp.  Nay,  he  is  no  coward  ; 

A villain,  if  thou  wilt,  but  not  a coward. 

I ’ve  seen  him  play  with  swords  ; it  is 
his  pastime. 

And  therefore  be  not  over-confident, 

He  ’ll  task  thy  skill  anon.  Look,  here 
he  comes. 

( Enter  Lara  followed  by  Francisco.) 

Lara.  Good  evening,  gentlemen. 

Hyp.  Good  evening,  Count. 

Lara.  I trust  I have  not  kept  you 
long  in  waiting. 

Viet.  Not  long,  and  yet  too  long. 
Are  you  prepared  ? 

Lara.  I am. 

Hyp.  It  grieves  me  much  to 

see  this  quarrel 

Between  you,  gentlemen.  Is  there  no 
way 

Left  open  to  accord  this  difference, 

But  you  must  make  one  with  your 
swords  ? 

Viet.  No  ! none  t 

I do  entreat  thee,  dear  Hypolito, 

Stand  not  between  me  and  my  foe.  Too 
long 

Our  tongues  have  spoken.  Let  these 
tongues  of  steel 

End  our  debate.  Upon  your  guard,  Sir 
Count. 

They  fight.  Victorian  disarms  the 
Count.) 

Your  life  is  mine  ; and  what  shall  now 
withhold  me 

From  sending  your  vile  soul  to  its  ac< 
count  ? 

Lara . Strike  ! strike  ! 


62 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Viet.  You  are  disarmed. 

I will  not  kill  you. 

I will  not  murder  you.  Take  up  your 
sword. 

(Francisco  hands  the  Count  his  sword, 
and  Hypolito  interposes.) 

Hyp.  Enough ! Let  it  end  here  ! 
The  Count  of  Lara 

Has  shown  himself  a brave  man,  and 
Victorian 

A generous  one,  as  ever.  Now  he  friends. 

Put  up  your  swords  ; for,  to  speak  frank- 
ly to  you, 

Your  cause  of  quarrel  is  too  slight  a thing 

To  move  you  to  extremes. 

Lara . I am  content. 

I sought  no  quarrel.  A few  hasty  words, 

Spoken  in  the  heat  ol  blood,  have  led  to 
this. 

Viet.  Nay,  something  more  than  that. 

Lara.  I understand  you. 

Therein  I did  not  mean  to  cross  your 
path. 

To  me  the  door  stood  open,  as  to  others. 

But,  had  I known  the  girl  belonged  to 
you, 

Never  would  I have  sought  to  win  her 
from  you. 

The  truth  stands  now  revealed  ; she  has 
been  false 

To  both  of  us. 

Viet.  Ay,  false  as  hell  itself  ! 

Lara.  In  truth,  I did  not  seek  her ; 
she  sought  me  ; 

And  told  me  how  to  win  her,  telling  me 

The  hours  when  she  was  oftenest  left 
alone. 

Viet.  Say,  can  you  prove  this  to  me  ? 
0,  pluck  out 

These  awful  doubts,  that  goad  me  into 
madness  ! 

Let  me  know  all  ! all  ! all  ! 

Lara.  You  shall  know  all. 

Here  is  my  page,  who  was  the  messenger 

Between  us.  Question  him.  Was  it  not 
so, 

Francisco  ? 

Fran.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Lara.  If  further  proof 

Is  needful,  I have  here  a ring  she  gave 
me. 

Viet.  Pray  let  me  see  that  ring  ! It 
is  the  same  ! 

[ Throws  it  upon  the  ground , and  tramples 
upon  it  A 


Thus  may  she  perish  who  once  wore  that 
ring  ! 

Thus  do  1 spurn  her  from  me  ; do  thus 
trample 

Her  memory  in  the  dust  ! 0 Count  of 

Lara, 

We  both  have  been  abused,  been  much 
abused  ! 

I thank  you  for  your  courtesy  and  frank- 
ness. 

Though,  like  the  surgeon’s  hand,  yours 
gave  me  pain, 

Yet  it  has  cured  my  blindness,  and  I 
thank  you. 

I now  can  see  the  folly  I have  done, 

Though ’t  is,  alas  ! too  late.  So  fare  you 
well ! 

To-night  I leave  this  hateful  town  forever. 

Regard  me  as  your  friend.  Once  more 
farewell  ! 

Hyp.  Farewell,  Sir  Count. 

[. Exeunt  Victorian  and  Hypolito. 

Lara.  Farewell  ! farewell  ! farewell ! 

Thus  have  I cleared  the  field  of  my  worst 
foe  ! 

I have  none  else  to  fear ; the  fight  is 
done, 

The  citadel  is  stormed,  the  victory  won  ! 

[Exit  with  Francisco. 


Scene  VII.  — A lane  in  the  suburbs. 

Night.  # Enter  Cruzado  and  Bar- 

tolomb. 

Cruz.  And  so,  Bartolome,  the  expedi- 
tion failed.  But  where  wast  thou  for 
the  most  part  ? 

Bart.  In  the  Guadarrama  mountains, 
near  San  Ildefonso. 

Cruz.  And  thou  bringest  nothing 
back  with  thee  ? Didst  thou  rob  no  one 

Bart.  There  was  no  one  to  rob,  save 
a party  of  students  from  Segovia,  who 
looked  as  if  they  would  rob  us  ; and  a. 
jolly  little  friar,  who  had  nothing  in  his 
pockets  but  a missal  and  a loaf  of  bread. 

Cruz.  Pray,  then,  what  brings  thee 
back  to  Madrid  ? 

Bart.  First  tell  me  what  keeps  thee 

here  ? 

Cruz.  Preciosa. 

Bart.  And  she  brings  me  back.  Hast 
thou  forgotten  thy  promise  ? 

Cruz.  The  two  years  are  not  passed 
yet.  Wait  patiently.  The  girl  shall  be 
thine. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


63 


Bart.  I hear  slie  has  a Busne  lover. 
Cruz.  That  is  nothing. 

Bart.  I do  not  like  it.  I hate  him, 
— the  son  of  a Busne  harlot.  He  goes 
in  and  out,  and  speaks  with  her  alone, 
and  I must  stand  aside,  and  wait  his 
pleasure. 

Cruz.  Be  patient,  I say.  Thou  shalt 
have  thy  revenge.  When  the  time 
comes,  thou  shalt  waylay  him. 

Bart.  Meanwhile,  show  me  her  house. 
Cruz.  Come  this  way.  But  thou 
wilt  not  find  her.  She  dances  at  the 
play  to-night. 

Bart.  No  matter.  Show  me  the  house. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  VIII.  — The  Theatre.  The  or- 
chestra plays  the  cachucha.  Sound  of 
castanets  behind  the  scenes.  The  curtain 
rises,  and  discovers  Preciosa  in  the  at- 
titude of  commencing  the  dance.  The 
cachucha.  Tumult ; hisses ; cries  of 
“ Brava  ! ” and  “ A fuera  ! ” She  falters 
and  pauses.  The  music  stops.  General 
confusion.  Preciosa  faints. 

Scene  IX.  — The  Count  of  Lara’s 
chambers.  Lara  and  his  friends  at 
supper. 

Lara.  So,  Caballeros,  once  more  many 
thanks  ! 

You  have  stood  by  me  bravely  in  this 
matter. 

Pray  fill  your  glasses. 

Don  J.  Did  you  mark,  Don  Luis, 
How  pale  she  looked,  when  first  the 
noise  began, 

And  then  stood  still,  with  her  large  eyes 
dilated  ! 

Her  nostrils  spread  ! her  lips  apart ! her 
bosom 

Tumultuous  as  the  sea  ! 

Don  L.  I pitied  her. 

Lara.  Her  pride  is  humbled ; and 
this  very  night 
I mean  to  visit  her. 

Don  J.  Will  you  serenade  her  ? 

Lara.  No  music  ! no  more  music  ! 
Don  L.  Why  not  music  ? 

It  softens  many  hearts. 

Lara.  Not  in  the  humor 

She  now  is  in.  Music  would  madden 
her. 

Don  J.  Try  golden  cymbals. 

Don  L.  Yes,  tiy  Don  Dinero  ; 

A mighty  wooer  is  your  Don  Dinero. 


Lara.  To  tell  the  truth,  then,  I have 
bribed  her  maid. 

But,  Caballeros,  you  dislike  this  wine. 

A bumper  and  away ; for  the  night 
wears. 

A health  to  Preciosa.  * 

( They  rise  and  drink. ) 

All.  Preciosa. 

Lara  (holding  up  his  glass).  Thou 
bright  and  flaming  minister  of 
Love  ! 

Thou  wonderful  magician ! who  hast 
stolen 

My  secret  from  me,  and  mid  sighs  of 
passion 

Caught  from  my  lips,  with  red  and  fiery 
tongue, 

Her  precious  name  ! 0 nevermore  hence- 
forth 

Shall  mortal  lips  press  thine  ; and  never- 
more 

A mortal  name  be  whispered  in  thine  ear. 
Go  ! keep  my  secret ! 

( Drinks  and  dashes  the  goblet  down. ) 
Don  J.  Ite  ! missa  est ! 

(Scene  closes.) 

Scene  X.  — Street  and  garden  wall. 
Night.  Enter  Cruzado  and  Bar- 
tolome. 

Cruz.  This  is  the  garden  wall,  and 
above  it,  yonder,  is  her  house.  The 
window  in  which  thou  seest  the  light 
is  her  window.  But  we  will  not  go  in 
now. 

Bart.  Why  not  ? 

Cruz.  Because  she  is  not  at  home. 
Bart.  No  matter  ; we  can  wait.  But 
how  is  this  ? The  gate  is  bolted. 
(Sound  of  guitars  and  voices  in  a neigh - 
boring  street.)  Hark  ! There  comes  her 
lover  with  his  infernal  serenade  ! Hark ! 

SONG. 

Good  night ! Good  night,  beloved  ! 

I come  to  watch  o’er  thee  ! 

To  be  near  thee, — to  be  near  thee, 
Alone  is  peace  for  me. 

Thine  eyes  are  stars  of  morning, 

Thy  lips  are  crimson  flowers  ! 

Good  night ! Good  night,  beloved. 
While  I count  the  weary  hours. 

Cruz.  They  are  not  coming  this  way. 
Bart.  Wait,  they  begin  again. 


64: 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


song  ( coming  nearer). 

Ah  ! thou  moon  that  shinest 
Argent-clear  above  ! 

All  night  long  enlighten 
My  sweet  lady-love  ! 

Moon  that  shinest, 

All  night  long  enlighten  ! 

Bart.  Woe  be  to  him,  if  he  comes  this 
way ! 

Cruz.  Be  quiet,  they  are  passing 
down  the  street. 

song  ( dying  away). 

The  nuns  in  the  cloister 

Sang  to  each  other  ; 

For  so  many  sisters 

Is  there  not  one  brother  ! 

Ay,  for  the  partridge,  mother  ! 

The  cat  has  run  away  with  the  partridge  ! 

Puss  ! puss  ! puss  ! 

Bart.  Follow  that ! follow  that ! 

Come  with  me.  Puss ! puss  ! 

[Exeunt.  On  the  opposite  side  enter  the 

Count  of  Lara  and  gentlemen , with 

Francisco.  ) 

Lara.  The  gate  is  fast.  Over  the 
wall,  Francisco, 

And  draw  the  bolt.  There,  so,  and  so, 
and  over. 

Now,  gentlemen,  come  in,  and  help  me 
scale 

Von  balcony.  How  now  ? Her  light 
still  burns. 

Move  warily.  Make  fast  the  gate,  Fran- 
cisco. 

{Exeunt.  Re-enter  Cruzado  and  Bar- 
tolome.) 

Bart.  They  went  in  at  the  gate. 

Hark ! I hear  them  in  the  garden. 

( Tries  the  gate.)  Bolted  again  ! Vive 

Cristo ! Follow  me  over  the  wall. 

( They  climb  the  wall.) 


t3cene  XI.  — Preciosa’s  bedchamber. 
Midnight.  She  is  sleeping  in  an  arm- 
chair, in  an  undress.  Dolores  watch- 
ing her. 

Dol.  She  sleeps  at  last ! * 

{Opens  the  window , and  listens.) 

All  silent  in  the  street, 
And  in  the  garden.  Hark  ! 

Free,  {in  her  sleep).  I must  go  hence  ! 
Give  me  my  cloak  ! 

Dol.  He  comes ! I hear  his  footsteps. 


Free.  Go  tell  them  that  I cannot 
dance  to-night ; 

I am  too  ill ! Look  at  me ! See  the 
fever 

That  burns  upon  my  cheek  ! I must  go 
hence. 

I am  too  weak  to  dance. 

{Signal  from  the  garden.) 

Dol.  ( from  the  window).  Who’s  there  ? 

Voice  { from  below).  A friend. 

Dol.  I will  undo  the  door.  Wait  till 
I come. 

Free.  I must  go  hence.  I pray  you 
do  not  harm  me  ! 

Shame  ! shame  ! to  treat  a feeble  woman 
thus  ! 

Be  you  but  kind,  I will  do  all  things  for 
you. 

I ’m  ready  now,  — give  me  my  casta- 
nets. 

Where  is  Victorian  ? Oh,  those  hateful 
lamps  ! 

They  glare  upon  me  like  an  evil  eye. 

I cannot  stay.  Hark  ! how  they  mock 
at  me  ! 

They  hiss  at  me  like  serpents  ! Save 
me  ! save  me  ! 

{She  wakes.) 

How  late  is  it,  Dolores  ? 

Dol.  It  is  midnight. 

Prec.  We  must  be  patient.  Smooth 
this  pillow  for  me. 

{She  sleeps  again.  Noise  from  the  garden, 
and  voices.) 

Voice.  Muera  ! 

Another  Voice.  0 villains  ! villains  ! 

Lara.  So  ! have  at  you  ! 

Voice.  Take  that ! 

Lara.  0,  I am  wounded  ! 

Dol.  (shutting  the  window).  Jesu 
Maria  ! 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I.  — A cross-road  through  a wood . 
In  the  background  a distant  village  spire. 
Victorian  and  Hypolito,  as  travelling 
students , with  guitars , sitting  under  the 
trees.  Hypolito  plays  and  sings. 

SONG. 

Ah,  Love  ! 

Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 
Enemy 

Of  all  that  mankind  may  not  rue  I 
Most  untrue 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


65 


To  him  who  keeps  most  faith  with  thee. 
Woe  is  me  ! 

The  falcon  has  the  eyes  of  the  dove. 

Ah,  Love  ! 

Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 

Viet.  Yes,  Love  is  ever  busy  with  his 
shuttle, 

Is  ever  weaving  into  life’s  dull  warp 
Bright,  gorgeous  flowers  and  scenes 
Arcadian  ; 

Hanging  our  gloomy  prison-house  about 
With  tapestries,  that  make  its  walls  dilate 
In  never-ending  vistas  of  delight. 

Hyp.  Thinking  to  walk  in  those  Arca- 
dian pastures, 

Thou  hast  run  thy  noble  head  against 
the  wall. 

song  (continued). 

Thy  deceits 

Give  us  clearly  to  comprehend, 
Whither  tend 

All  thy  pleasures,  all  thy  sweets  ! 

They  are  cheats, 

Thorns  below  and  flowers  above. 

Ah,  Love  ! 

Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love  ! 

Viet.  A very  pretty  song.  I thank 
thee  for  it. 

Hyp.  It  suits  thy  case. 

Viet.  Indeed,  I think  it  does. 

What  wise  man  wrote  it  ? 

Hyp.  Lopez  Maldonado. 

Viet.  In  truth,  a pretty  song. 

Hyp.  With  much  truth  in  it. 

I hope  thou  wilt  profit  by  it ; and  in 
earnest 

Try  to  forget  this  lady  of  thy  love. 

Viet.  I will  forget  her  ! All  dear  rec- 
ollections 

Pressed  in  my  heart,  like  flowers  within 
a book, 

Shall  be  torn  out,  and  scattered  to  the 
winds  ! 

I will  forget  her  ! But  perhaps  hereafter, 
When  she  shall  learn  how  heartless  is  the 
world, 

A voice  within  her  will  repeat  my  name, 
A-nd  she  will  say,  “He  was  indeed  my 
friend  ! ” 

0,  would  I were  a soldier,  not  a scholar, 
That  the  loud  march,  the  deafening  beat 
of  drums, 

The  shattering  blast  of  the  brass-throated 
trumpet, 

The  din  of  arms,  the  onslaught  and  the 
storm, 


And  a swift  death,  might  make  me  deaf 
forever 

To  the  upbraidings  of  this  foolish  heart  ! 

Hyp.  Then  let  that  foolish  heart  up- 
braid no  more  ! 

To  conquer  love,  one.  need  but  will  to 
conquer. 

Viet.  Yet,  good  Hypolito,  it  is  in 
vain 

I throw  into  Oblivion’s  sea  the  sword 

That  pierces  me  ; for,  like  Excalibar, 

With  gemmed  and  flashing  hilt,  it  will 
not  sink. 

There  rises  from  below  a hand  that 
grasps  it, 

And  waves  it  in  the  air  ; and  wailing 
voices 

Are  heard  along  the  shore. 

Hyp.  And  yet  at  last 

Down  sank  Excalibar  to  rise  no  more. 

This  is  not  well.  In  truth,  it  vexes  me. 

Instead  of  whistling  to  the  steeds  of  Time, 

To  make  them  jog  on  merrily  with  life’s 
burden, 

Like  a dead  weight  thou  hangest  on  the 
wheels. 

Thou  art  too  young,  too  full  of  lusty 
health 

To  talk  of  dying. 

Viet.  Yet  I fain  would  die  ! 

To  go  through  life,  unloving  and  un- 
loved ; 

To  feel  that  thirst  and  hunger  of  the 
soul 

We  cannot  still  ; that  longing,  that  wild 
impulse, 

And  struggle  after  something  we  have 
not 

And  cannot  have  ; the  effort  to  be 
strong  ; 

And,  like  the  Spartan  boy,  to  smile,  and 
smile, 

While  secret  wounds  do  bleed  beneath 
our  cloaks  ; 

All  this  the  dead  feel  not,  — the  dead 
alone  ! 

Would  I were  with  them  ! 

Hyp.  We  shall  all  be  soon. 

Viet.  It  cannot  be  too  soon  ; for  I am 
weary 

Of  the  bewildering  masquerade  of  Life, 

Where  strangers  walk  as  friends,  and 
friends  as  strangers  ; 

Where  whispers  overheard  betray  false 
hearts  ; 

And  through  the  mazes  of  the  crowd  we 
chase 


5 


66 


TIIE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Some  form  of  loveliness,  that  smiles,  and 
beckons, 

And  cheats  us  with  fair  words,  only  to 
leave  us 

A mockery  and  a jest ; maddened,  — con- 
tused, — 

Not  knowing  friend  from  foe. 

Hyp.  Why  seek  to  know  ? 

Enjoy  the  merry  shrove-tide  of  thy 
youth  ! 

Take  each  fair  mask  for  what  it  gives  it- 
self, . 

Nor  strive  to  look  beneath  it. 

Viet.  I confess, 

That  were  the  wiser  part.  But  Hope  no 
longer 

Comforts  my  soul.  I am  a wretched 
man, 

Much  like  a poor  and  shipwrecked  mar- 
iner, 

Who,  struggling  to  climb  up  into  the 
boat, 

Has  both  his  bruised  and  bleeding  hands 
cut  off, 

And  sinks  again  into  the  weltering  sea, 

Helpless  and  hopeless  ! 

Hyp.  Yet  thou  shalt  not  perish. 

The  strength  of  thine  own  arm  is  thy  sal- 
vation. 

Above  thy  head,  through  rifted  clouds, 
there  shines 

A glorious  star.  Be  patient.  Trust  thy 
star  ! 

(Sound  of  a village  bell  in  the  distance.') 

Viet.  Ave  Maria  ! I hear  the  sacris- 
tan 

Ringing  the  chimes  from  yonder  village 
belfry  ! 

A solemn  sound,  that  echoes  far  and 
wide 

Over  the  red  roofs  of  the  cottages, 

And  bids  the  laboring  hind  a-field,  the 
shepherd, 

Guarding  his  flock,  the  lonely  muleteer, 

And  all  the  crowd  in  village  streets, 
stand  still, 

And  breathe  a prayer  unto  the  blessed 
Virgin  ! 

Hyp.  Amen  ! amen  ! Not  half  a 
league  from  hence 

The  village  lies. 

Viet.  This  path  will  lead  us  to  it, 

Over  the  wheat-fields,  where  the  shadows 
sail 

Across  the  running  sea,  now  green,  now 
blue, 


And,  like  an  idle  mariner  on  the  main, 

Whistles  the  quail.  Come,  let  us  hasten 
on.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  II.  — Public  square  in  the  village 
of  Guadarrama.  The  Ave  Maria  still 
tolling.  A crowd  of  villagers,  with  their 
hats  in  their  hands , as  if  in  prayer.  In 
front , a group  of  Gypsies.  The  bell 
rings  a merrier  peal . A Gypsy  dance. 
Enter  Pancho,  followed  by  Pedro  Cres- 
po. 

Pancho.  Make  room,  ye  vagabonds 
and  Gypsy  thieves  ! 

Make  room  for  the  Alcalde  and  for  me  ! 
Pedro  C.  Keep  silence  all  ! I have 
an  edict  here 

From  our  most  gracious  lord,  the  King 
of  Spain, 

Jerusalem,  and  the  Canary  Islands, 

Which  I shall  publish  in  the  market- 
place. 

Open  your  ears  and  listen  ! 

(Enter  the  Padre  Cura  at  the  door  of  his 
cottage.) 

Padre  Cura, 

Good  day  ! and,  pray  you,  hear  this  edict 
read. 

Padre  C.  Good  day,  and  God  be  with 
you  ! Pray,  what  is  it  ? 

Pedro  C.  An  act  of  banishment 
against  the  Gypsies  ! 

(A  gitation  and  murmurs  in  the  crowd.) 
Pancho.  Silence  ! 

Pedro  C.  (reads).  “ I hereby  order  and 
command, 

That  the  Egyptian  and  Chaldean  stran- 
gers, 

Known  by  the  name  of  Gypsies,  shall 
henceforth 

Be  banished  from  the  realm,  as  vaga- 
bonds 

And  beggars  ; and  if,  after  seventy  days, 

Any  be  found  within  our  kingdom’s 
bounds, 

They  shall  receive  a hundred  lashes  each ; 

The  second  time,  shall  have  their  ears 
cut  off  ; 

The  third,  be  slaves  for  life  to  him  who 
takes  them, 

Or  burnt  as  heretics.  Signed,  I,  the 
King.” 

Vile  miscreants  and  creatures  unbap- 
tized ! 

You  hear  the  law  ! Obey  and  disappear  ! 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT.  67 


Pancho.  And  if  in  seventy  days  you 
are  not  gone, 

Dead  or  alive  1 make  you  all  my  slaves. 

( The  Gypsies  go  out  in  confusion,  showing 
signs  of  fear  and  discontent.  Pancho 
follows. ) 

Padre  C.  A righteous  law ! A very 
righteous  law  ! 

Pray  you,  sit  down. 

Pcclro  C.  I thank  you  heartily. 

( They  seat  themselves  on  a bench  at  the 
Padre  Cura’s  door.  Sound  of  guitars 
heard  at  a distance , approaching  dur- 
ing the  dialogue  which  follows.) 

A very  righteous  judgment,  as  you  say. 

Now  tell  me,  Padre  Cura,  — you  know 
all  things,  — 

How  came  these  Gypsies  into  Spain  ? 
Padre  C.  Why,  look  you  ; 

They  came  with  Hercules  from  Palestine, 

And  hence  are  thieves  and  vagrants,  Sir 
Alcalde, 

As  the  Simoniacs  from  Simon  Magus. 

And,  look  you,  as  Fray  Jayme  Bleda  says, 

There  are  a hundred  marks  to  prove  a 
Moor 

Is  not  a Christian,  so  ’t  is  with  the  Gyp- 
sies. 

They  never  marry,  never  go  to  mass, 

Never  baptize  their  children,  nor  keep 
Lent, 

Nor  see  the  inside  of  a church,  — nor  — 
nor  — 

Pedro  C.  Good  reasons,  good,  substan- 
tial reasons  all ! 

No  matter  for  the  other  ninety-five. 

They  should  be  burnt,  I see  it  plain 
enough, 

They  should  be  burnt. 

(Enter  Victorian  and  Hypolito  playing.) 

Padre  C.  And  pray,  whom  have  we 
here  ? 

Pedro  C.  More  vagrants  ! By  Saint 
Lazarus,  more  vagrants  ! 

Hyp.  Good  evening,  gentlemen ! Is 
this  Guadarrama  ? 

Padre  0.  Yes,  Guadarrama,  and  good 
evening  to  you. 

Hyp.  We  seek  the  Padre  Cura  of  the 
village  ; 

And,  judging  from  your  dress  and  rever- 
end mien, 

You  must  be  he. 

Padre  C.  I am.  Pray,  what’s 

your  pleasure  ? 


Hyp.  We  are  poor  students,  travel' 
ling  in  vacation. 

You  know  this  mark  ? 

( Touching  the  wooden  spoon  in  his  hat> 
band.  t 

Padre  C.  (joyfully).  Ay,  know  it,  and 
have  worn  it. 

Pedro  C.  (aside).  Soup -eaters  ! by  the 
mass  ! The  worst  of  vagrants  ! 
And  there ’s  no  law  against  them.  Sir, 
your  servant.  [Exit. 

Padre  C.  Your  servant,  Pedro  Crespo. 

Hyp.  Padre  Cura, 

From  the  first  moment  I beheld  your  face, 
I said  within  myself,  “ This  is  the  man  ! ” 
There  is  a certain  something  in  your 
looks, 

A certain  scholar-like  and  studious  some- 
thing, — 

You  understand,  — which  cannot  be  mis- 
taken ; 

Which  marks  you  as  a very  learned  man, 
In  fine,  as  one  of  us. 

Viet,  (aside).  What  impudence  ! 

Hyp.  As  we  approached,  I said  to  my 
companion, 

“ That  is  the  Padre  Cura  ; mark  my 
words  ! ” 

Meaning  your  Grace.  “ The  other  man,  ” 
said  I, 

“ Who  sits  so  awkwardly  upon  the  bench, 
Must  be  the  sacristan.” 

Padre  G.  Ah  ! said  you  so  ? 

Why,  that  was  Pedro  Crespo,  the  al- 
calde ! 

Hyp.  Indeed  ! you  much  astonish  me  ! 
His  air 

Was  not  so  full  of  dignity  and  grace 
As  an  alcalde’s  should  be. 

Padre  C.  That  is  true. 

He’s  out  of  humor  with  some  vagrant 
Gypsies, 

Who  have  their  camp  here  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

There ’s  nothing  so  undignified  as  anger. 

Hyp.  The  Padre  Cura  will  excuse  our 
boldness, 

If,  from  his  well-known  hospitality, 

We  crave  a lodging  for  the  night. 

Padre  C.  I pray  you  ! 

You  do  me  honor  ! I am  but  too  happy 
To  have  such  guests  beneath  my  humble 
roof. 

It  is  not  often  that  I have  occasion 
To  speak  with  scholars  ; and  Emollil 

'mores, 

Nec  sinit  esse  feros,  Cicero  says. 


68 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Hyp.  ’T  is  Ovid,  is  it  not  ? 

Padre  C.  No,  Cicero. 

Hyp.  Yonr  Grace  is  right.  You  are 
the  better  scholar. 

Now  what  a dunce  was  I to  think  it 
Ovid  ! 

But  hang  me  if  it  is  not ! {Aside.) 

Padre  C.  Pass  this  way. 

He  was  a very  great  man,  was  Cicero  ! 
Pray  you,  go  in,  go  in  ! no  ceremony. 

[Exeunt. 


Scene  III.  — A room  in  the  Padre  Cura’s 

house,  Enter  the  Padre  and  PIypolito. 

Padre  C.  So  then,  Senor,  you  come 
from  Alcala. 

I am  glad  to  hear  it.  It  was  there  I 
studied. 

Hyp.  And  left  behind  an  honored 
name,  no  doubt. 

How  may  I call  your  Grace  ? 

Padre  C.  Geronimo 

De  Santillana,  at  your  Honor’s  service. 

Hyp.  Descended  from  the  Marquis 
Santillana  ? 

From  the  distinguished  poet  ? 

Padre  C.  From  the  Marquis, 

Not  from  the  poet. 

Hyp.  Why,  they  were  the  same. 

Let  me  embrace  you  ! 0 some  lucky 

star 

Has  brought  me  hither  ! Yet  once  more  ! 
— once  more  ! 

Your  name  is  ever  green  in  Alcala, 

And  our  professor, when  we  are  unruly, 

Will  shake  his  hoary  head,  and  say, 

“ Alas  ! 

It  was  not  so  in  Santillana’s  time  ! ” 

Padre  C.  I did  not  think  my  name 
remembered  there. 

Hyp.  More  than  remembered  ; it  is 
idolized. 

Padre  C.  Of  what  professor  speak 
you  ? 

Hyp.  Timoneda. 

Padre  C.  I don’t  remember  any  Ti- 
moneda. 

Hyp.  A grave  and  sombre  man,  whose 
beetling  brow 

O’erhangs  the  rushing  current  of  his 
speech 

As  rocks  o’er  rivers  hang.  Have  you  for- 
gotten ? 

Padre  C.  Indeed,  I have.  0,  those 
were  pleasant  days, 


Those  college  days  ! I ne’er  shall  see  the 
like  1 

I had  not  buried  then  so  many  hopes  ! 

I had  not  buried  then  so  many  friends  ! 

I ’ve  turned  my  back  on  what  was  then 
before  me  ; 

And  the  bright  faces  of  my  young  com- 
panions 

Are  wrinkled  like  my  own,  or  are  no 
more. 

Do  you  remember  Cueva  ? 

Hyp.  Cueva  ? Cueva  ? 

Padre  C.  Fool  that  I am  ! He  was 
before  your  time. 

You  ’re  a mere  boy,  and  I am  an  old 
man. 

Hyp.  I should  not  like  to  try  my 
strength  with  you. 

Padre  C.  Well,  well.  But  I forget ; 
you  must  be  hungry. 

Martina  ! ho  ! Martina  ! ’Tis  my  niece. 

( Enter  Martina.) 

Hyp.  You  may  be  proud  of  such  a 
niece  as  that. 

I wish  I had  a niece.  Emollit  mores, 
{Aside.) 

He  was  a very  great  man,  was  Cicero  ! 

Your  servant,  fair  Martina. 

Mart.  Servant,  sir 

Padre  C.  This  gentleman  is  hungry. 
See  thou  to  it. 

Let  us  have  supper. 

Mart.  ’T  will  he  ready  soon. 

Padre  C.  And  bring  a bottle  of  my 
Val-de-Penas 

Out  of  the  cellar.  Stay  ; I ’ll  go  myself. 

Pray  you,  Senor,  excuse  me.  [Exit. 

Hyp.  Hist  ! Martina  J 

One  word  with  you.  Bless  me ! what 
handsome  eyes  ! 

To-day  there  have  been  Gypsies  in  the 
village. 

Is  it  not  so  ? 

Mart.  There  have  been  Gypsies  here. 

Hyp.  Yes,  and  have  told  your  for- 
tune. 

Mart,  {embarrassed).  Told  my  for- 
tune ? 

Hyp.  Yes,  yes  ; I know  they  did. 
Give  me  your  hand. 

I ’ll  tell  you  what  they  said.  They  said, 
— they  said, 

The  shepherd  boy  that  loved  you  was  a 
clown, 

And  him  you  should  not  marry.  Was  it 
not  ? 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


69 


Mart.  ( surprised ).  How  know  you 
that  ? 

ffyp.  0,  I know  more  than  that. 
What  a soft,  little  hand  ! And  then  they 
said, 

A cavalier  from  court,  handsome,  and  tall 
/Hid  rich,  should  come  one  day  to  marry 
you, 

And  you  should  be  a lady.  Was  it  not  ? 
lie  has  arrived,  the  handsome  cavalier. 

( Tries  to  kiss  her.  She  runs  off.  Enter 
Victorian,  toith  a letter.) 

Viet.  The  muleteer  has  come. 

Hyp . So  soon  ? 

Viet.  I found  him 

Sitting  at  supper  by  the  tavern  door, 
And,  from  a pitcher  that  he  held  aloft 
His  whole  arm’s  length,  drinking  the 
blood-red  wine. 

Hyp.  What  news  from  Court  ? 

Viet . He  brought  this  letter  only. 

(Reads. ) 

0 cursed  perfidy  ! Why  did  I let 

T hat  lying  tongue  deceive  me  ! Preciosa, 
Sweet  Preciosa  ! how  art  thou  avenged  ! 
Hyp.  What  news  is  this,  that  makes 
thy  cheek  turn  pale, 

And  thy  hand  tremble  ? 

Viet.  0,  most  infamous  ! 

The  Count  of  Lara  is  a worthless  villain  ! 
Hyp.  That  is  no  news,  forsooth. 

Viet.  He  strove  in  vain 

To  steal  from  me  the  jewel  of  my  soul, 
The  love  of  Preciosa.  Not  succeeding, 
He  swore  to  be  revenged  ; and  set  on  foot 
A plot  to  ruin  her,  which  has  succeeded. 
She  has  been  hissed  and  hooted  from  the 
stage, 

Her  reputation  stained  by  slanderous  lies 
Too  foul  to  speak  of  ; and,  once  more  a 
beggar, 

She  roams  a wanderer  over  God’s  green 
earth, 

Housing  with  Gypsies  ! 

Hyp.  To  renew  again 

The  Age  of  Gold,  and  make  the  shepherd 
swains 

Desperate  with  love,  like  Gasper  Gil’s 
Diana. 

Redit  et  Virgo  ! 

Viet.  Dear  Hypolito, 

How  have  I wronged  that  meek,  confid- 
ing heart  ! 

1 will  go  seek  for  her  ; and  with  my  tears 
Wash  out  the  wrong  I ’ve  done  her  ! 

Hyp.  0 beware  ! 

Act  not  that  folly  o’er  again. 


Viet.  Ay,  folly, 

Delusion,  madness,  call  it  what  thou  wilt, 
I will  confess  my  weakness, — I still  love 
her  ! 

Still  fondly  love  her  ! 

(Enter  the  Padre  Cura.) 

Hyp.  Tell  us,  Padre  Cura, 

Who  are  these  Gypsies  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ? 

Padre  C.  Beltran  Cruzado  and  his 
crew. 

Viet.  Kind  Heaven, 

I thank  thee  ! She  is  found  ! is  found 
again  ! 

Hyp.  And  have  they  with  them  a pale, 
beautiful  girl, 

Called  Preciosa  ? 

Padre  C.  Ay,  a pretty  girl. 

The  gentleman  seems  moved. 

Hyp.  Yes,  moved  with  hunger, 

He  is  half  famished  with  this  long  day’s 
journey. 

Padre  C.  Then,  pray  you,  come  this 
way.  The  supper  waits.  [Exeunt. 


Scene  IV.  — A post-house  on  the  road  to 
Segovia,  not  far  from  the  village  of  Gua - 
darrama.  Enter  Chispa,  cracking  a 
whip,  and  singing  the  cachucha. 

Chispa.  Halloo  ! Don  Fulano  ! Let 
us  have  horses,  and  quickly.  Alas,  poor 
Chispa  ! what  a dog’s  life  dost  thou  lead ! 
I thought,  when  I left  my  old  master 
Victorian,  the  student,  to  serve  my  new 
master  Don  Carlos,  the  gentleman,  that 
I,  too,  should  lead  the  life  of  a gentleman  ; 
should  go  to  bed  early,  and  get  up  late. 
For  when  the  abbot  plays  cards,  what 
can  you  expect  of  the  friars  ? But,  in 
running  away  from  the  thunder,  I have 
run  into  the  lightning.  Here  I am  in 
hot  chase  after  my  master  and  his  Gyp- 
sy girl.  And  a good  beginning  of  the  week 
it  is,  as  he  said  who  was  hanged  on  Mon- 
day morning. 

(Enter  Don  Carlos.) 

Don  C.  Are  not  the  horses  ready  yet  ? 
Chispa.  I should  think  not,  for  the 
hostler  seems  to  be  asleep.  Ho  ! within 
there  ! Horses  ! horses  ! horses  ! (He 
knocks  at  the  gate  with  his  whip,  and  en- 
ter Mosquito,  putting  on  his  jacket.) 

Mosq.  Pray,  have  a little  patience. 
I ’m  not  a musket. 

Chispa . Health  and  pistareens  ! I ’m 


70 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


glad  to  see  yon  come  on  dancing,  padre  ! 
Pray,  what ’s  the  news  ? 

Mosq . You  cannot  have  fresh  horses  ; 
because  there  are  none. 

Chispa.  Cachiporra  ! Throw  that 
bone  to  another  dog.  Do  I look  like 
your  aunt  ? 

Mosq.  No  ; she  has  a beard. 

Chispa.  Go  to  ! go  to  ! 

Mosq.  Are  you  from  Madrid  ? 

Chispa.  Yes  ; and  going  to  Estrama- 
dura.  Get  us  horses. 

Mosq.  What ’s  the  news  at  Court  ? 

Chispa.  Why,  the  latest  news  is,  that 
I am  going  to  set  up  a coach,  and  I have 
already  bought  the  whip. 

{Strikes  him  round  the  legs.) 

Mosq.  Oh  ! oh  ! you  hurt  me  ! 

Don  C.  Enough  of  this  folly.  Let 
us  have  horses.  (Gives  money  to  Mos- 
quito.) It  is  almost  dark  ; and  we  are  in 
haste.  But  tell  me,  has  a band  of  Gyp- 
sies passed  this  way  of  late  ? 

Mosq.  Yes  ; and  they  are  still  in  the 
neighborhood. 

l)on  C.  And  where  ? 

Mosq.  Across  the  fields  yonder,  in  the 
woods  near  Guadarrama.  [Exit. 

Don  C.  Now  this  is  lucky.  We  will 
visit  the  Gypsy  camp. 

Chispa.  Are  you  not  afraid  of  the  evil 
eye  ? Have  you  a stag’s  horn  with  you  ? 

Don  C.  Fear  not.  We  will  pass  the 
night  at  the  village. 

Chispa.  And  sleep  like  the  Squires  of 
Hernan  Daza,  nine  under  one  blanket. 

Don  C.  I hope  we  may  find  the  Pre- 
ciosa  among  them. 

Chispa.  Among  the  Squires  ? 

Don  C.  No ; among  the  Gypsies, 
blockhead  ! 

Chispa.  I hope  we  may  ; for  we  are 
giving  ourselves  trouble  enough  on  her 
account.  Don’t  you  think  so  ? How- 
ever, there  is  no  catching  trout  without 
wetting  one’s  trousers.  Yonder  come 
the  horses.  [ Exeunt . 


Scene  V.  — The  Gypsy  camp  in  the  for- 
est. Night.  Gypsies  working  at  a forge. 
Others  playing  cards  by  the  firelight. 

Gypsies  (at  the  forge  sing). 

On  the  top  of  a mountain  T stand, 

With  a crown  of  red  gold  in  my  hand, 


Wild  Moors  come  trooping  over  the  lea, 

0 how  from  their  fury  shall  I flee,  flee,  flee  ? 
0 how  from  their  fury  shall  I flee  ? 

First  Gypsy  (playing).  Down  with 
your  John-1) orados,  my  pigeon.  Down 
with  your  John -Dorados,  and  let  us 
make  an  end. 

Gypsies  (at  the  forge  sing). 

Loud  sang  the  Spanish  cavalier, 

And  thus  his  ditty  ran  ; 

God  send  the  Gypsy  lassie  here, 

And  not  the  Gypsy  man. 

First  Gypsy  (playing).  There  you  are 
in  your  morocco  ! 

Second  Gypsy.  One  more  game.  The 
Alcalde’s  doves  against  the  Padre  Cura’s 
new  moon. 

First  Gypsy.  Have  at  you,  Chirelin. 

Gypsies  (at  the  forge  sing). 

At  midnight,  when  the  moon  began 
To  show  her  silver  flame, 

There  came  to  him  no  Gypsy  man, 

The  Gypsy  lassie  came. 

(Enter  Beltran  Cruzado.  ) 

Cruz.  Come  hither,  Murcigalleros  and 
Rastilleros  ; leave  work,  leave  play  ; lis- 
ten to  your  orders  for  the  night.  (Squeak- 
ing to  the  right.)  You  will  get  you  to 
the  village,  mark  you,  by  the  stone 
cross. 

Gypsies.  Ay  ! 

Cruz,  (to  the  left).  And  you,  by  the 
pole  with  the  hermit’s  head  upon  it. 

Gypsies.  Ay  ! 

Cruz.  As  soon  as  you  see  the  planets 
are  out,  in  with  you,  and  be  busy  with 
the  ten  commandments,  under  the  sly, 
and  Saint  Martin  asleep.  D’ye  hear  ? 

Gypsies.  Ay  ! 

Cruz.  Keep  your  lanterns  open,  and, 
if  you  see  a goblin  or  a papagayo,  take 
to  your  trampers.  Vineyards  and  Dan- 
cing John  is  the  word.  Am  1 compre- 
hended ? 

Gypsies.  Ay  ! ay  ! 

. Cruz.  Away,  then  ! 

(Exeunt  severally.  Cruzado  walks  up  the 

stage , and  disappears  among  the  trees. 

Enter  Preciosa.  ) 

Free.  How  strangely  gleams  through 
the  gigantic  trees 

The  red  light  of  tlie  forge  ! Wild,  beck- 
oning shadows 

Stalk  through  the  forest,  ever  and  anon 
Rising  and  bending  with  the  flickering 
flame, 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


71 


Then  flitting  into  darkness  ! So  within 
me 

Strange  hopes  and  fears  do  beckon  to 
each  other, 

My  brightest  hopes  giving  dark  fears  a 
being 

As  the  light  does  the  shadow.  Woe  is 
me  ! 

How  still  it  is  about  me,  and  how 
lonely  ! 

(Bartolome  rushes  in.) 

Bart.  Ho  ! Preciosa  ! 

Free.  0 Bartolome  ! 

Thou  here  ? 

Bart.  Lo  ! I am  here. 

Free.  Whence  comest  thou  ? 

Bart.  From  the  rough  ridges  of  the 
wild  Sierra, 

From  caverns  in  the  rocks,  from  hunger, 
thirst, 

And  fever  ! Like  a wild  wolf  to  the 
sheepfold 

Come  I for  thee,  my  lamb. 

Free.  0 touch  me  not  ! 

The  Count  of  Lara’s  blood  is  on  thy 
hands ! 

The  Count  of  Lara’s  curse  is  on  thy 
soul  ! 

Do  not  come  near  me  ! Pray,  begone 
from  here  ! 

Thou  art  in  danger  ! They  have  set  a 
price 

Upon  thy  head  ! 

Bart.  Ay,  and  I ’ve  wandered  long 

Among  the  mountains  ; and  for  many 
days 

Have  seen  no  human  face,  save  the 
rough  swineherd’s. 

The  wind  and  rain  have  been  my  sole 
companions. 

I shouted  to  them  from  the  rocks  thy 
name, 

And  the  loud  echo  sent  it  back  to  me, 

Till  I grew  mad.  I could  not  stay  from 
thee, 

And  I am  here  ! Betray  me,  if  thou  wilt. 

Free.  Betray  thee  ? I betray  thee  ? 

Bart.  Preciosa ! 

I come  for  thee  ! for  thee  I thus  brave 
death  ! 

Fly  with  me  o’er  the  borders  of  this 
realm  ! 

Fly  with  me  ! 

Free.  Speak  of  that  no  more.  I 

cannot. 

I ’m  thine  no  longer. 


Bart.  0,  recall  the  time 

When  we  were  children ! how  we  played 
together, 

How  we  grew  up  together ; how  we 
plighted 

Our  hearts  unto  each  other,  even  in 
childhood  ! 

Fulfil  thy  promise,  for  the  hour  has 
come. 

I ’m  hunted  from  the  kingdom,  like  a 
wolf ! 

Fulfil  thy  promise. 

Free.  ’T  was  my  father’s  promise, 

Not  mine.  I never  gave  my  heart  to 
thee, 

Nor  promised  thee  my  hand  ! 

Bart. ' False  tongue  of  woman  ! 

And  heart  more  false  ! 

Free.  Nay,  listen  unto  me. 

I will  speak  frankly.  I have  never 
loved  thee  ; 

I cannot  love  thee.  This  is  not  my 
fault, 

It  is  my  destiny.  Thou  art  a man 

Restless  and  violent.  What  wouldst 
thou  with  me, 

A feeble  girl,  who  have  not  long  to 
live, 

Whose  heart  is  broken  ? Seek  another 
wife, 

Better  than  I,  and  fairer  ; and  let  not 

Thy  rash  and  headlong  moods  estrange 
her  from  thee. 

Thou  art  unhappy  in  this  hopeless  pas- 
sion. 

I never  sought  thy  love  ; never  did 
aught 

To  make  thee  love  me.  Yet  I pity 
thee, 

And  most  of  all  I pity  thy  wild  heart, 

That  hurries  thee  to  crimes  and  deeds 
of  blood. 

Beware,  beware  of  that. 

Bart.  For  thy  dear  sake 

I will  be  gentle.  Thou  shalt  teach  me 
patience. 

Free.  Then  take  this  farewell,  and 
depart  in  peace. 

Thou  must  not  linger  here. 

Bart.  Come,  come  with  me. 

Prec.  Hark  ! I hear  footsteps. 

Bart.  1 entreat  thee,  come  ! 

Prec.  Away  ! It  is  in  vain. 

Bart.  Wilt  thou  not  come  ? 

Prec.  Never  ! 

Bart.  Then  woe,  eternal  woe, 

upon  thee  ! 


THE  SPANISH 


STUDENT. 


72 


Thou  shalt  not  be  another’s.  Thou 
shalt  die.  [Exit. 

Prec.  All  holy  angels  keep  me  in  this 
hour  ! 

Spirit  of  her  who  bore  me,  look  upon 
me  ! 

Mother  of  God,  the  glorified,  protect 
me  ! 

Christ  and  the  saints,  be  merciful  unto 
me  ! 

Yet  why  should  I fear  death  ? What  is 
it  to  die  ? 

To  leave  all  disappointment,  care,  and 
sorrow, 

To  leave  all  falsehood,  treachery,  and 
unkindness, 

All  ignominy,  suffering,  and  despair, 

And  be  at  rest  forever  ! 0 dull  heart, 

Be  of  good  cheer  ! When  thou  shalt 
cease  to  beat, 

Then  shalt  thou  cease  to  suffer  and  com- 
plain ! 

{Enter  Victorian  and  Hypolito  behind.) 

Viet.  ’T  is  she  ! Behold,  how  beauti- 
ful she  stands 

Under  the  tent-like  trees  ! 

Hyp.  A woodland  nymph  ! 

Viet.  I pray  thee,  stand  aside.  Leave 
me. 

Hyp.  Be  wary. 

Do  not  betray  thyself  too  soon. 

Viet,  (i disguising  his  voice).  Hist  ! 
Gypsy  ! 

Prec.  {aside,  vnth  emotion).  That 
voice  ! that  voice  from  heaven  ! 

0 speak  again  ! 

Who  is  it  calls  ? 

Viet.  A friend. 

Prec.  {aside).  ’T  is  he  ! ’T  is  he  ! 

I thank  thee,  Heaven,  that  thou  hast 
heard  my  prayer, 

And  sent  me  this  protector  ! Now  be 
strong, 

Be  strong,  my  heart  ! I must  dissem- 
ble here. 

False  friend  or  true  ? 

Viet.  A true  friend  to  the  true  ; 

Fear  not  ; come  hither.  So  ; can  you 
tell  fortunes  ? 

Prec.  Notin  the  dark.  Come  nearer 
to  the  fire. 

Give  me  your  hand.  It  is  not  crossed, 

1 see. 

Viet,  {putting  a piece  of  gold  into  her 
hand).  There  is  the  cross. 

Prec.  Is ’t  silver  ? 


Viet.  No,  ’t  is  gold. 

Prec.  There ’s  a fair  lady  at  the  Court, 
who  loves  you, 

And  for  yourself  alone. 

Viet.  Fie  ! the  old  story  ! 

Tell  me  a better  fortune  for  my  money  ; 
Not  this  old  woman’s  tale  ! 

Prec.  You  are  passionate  ; 

And  this  same  passionate  humor  in  your 
blood 

Has  marred  your  fortune.  Yes  ; I see 
it  now  ; 

The  line  of  life  is  crossed  by  many 
marks. 

Shame  ! shame  ! 0 you  have  wronged 

the  maid  who  loved  you  ! 

How  could  you  do  it  ? 

Viet.  I never  loved  a maid  ; 

For  she  I loved  was  then  a maid  no 
more. 

Prec.  How  know  you  that  ? 

Viet.  A little  bird  in  the  air 

Whispered  the  secret. 

Prec.  There,  take  back  your  gold  ! 
Your  hand  is  cold,  like  a deceiver’s 
hand  ! 

There  is  no  blessing  in  its  charity  ! 

Make  her  your  wife,  for  you  have  been 
abused ; 

And  you  shall  mend  your  fortunes, 
mending  hers. 

Viet.  ( aside ).  How  like  an  angel’s 
speaks  the  tongue  of  woman, 
When  pleading  in  another’s  cause  her 
own  ! 

That  is  a pretty  ring  upon  your  finger- 
Pray  give  it  me.  ( Tries  to  take  the  ring.) 

Prec.  No  ; never  from  my  hand 

Shall  that  be  taken  ! 

Viet.  Why,  ’t  is  but  a ring. 

I ’ll  give  it  back  to  you  ; or,  if  I keep  it, 
Will  give  you  gold  to  buy  you  twenty 
such. 

Prec.  Why  would  you  have  this  ring  ? 

Viet.  A traveller’s  fancy, 

A whim,  and  nothing  more.  I would 
fain  keep  it 

As  a memento  of  the  Gypsy  camp 
In  Guadarrama,  and  the  fortune-teller 
Who  sent  me  back  to  wed  a widowed 
maid. 

Pray,  let  me  have  the  ring. 

Prec.  No,  never  ! never  ! 

I will  not  part  with  it,  even  when  I 
die  ; 

But  bid  my  nurse  fold  my  pale  fingers 
thus, 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


73 


That  it  may  not  fall  from  them.  ’T  is  a 
token 

Of  a beloved  friend,  who  is  no  more. 

Viet.  How  ? dead  ? 

Free.  Yes  ; dead  to  me ; and  worse 
than  dead. 

He  is  estranged  ! And  yet  I keep  this 
ring.  . 

I will  rise  with  it  from  my  grave  here- 
after, 

To  prove  to  him  that  I was  never  false. 

Viet,  [aside).  Be  still,  my  swelling 
heart ! one  moment,  still ! 

Why,  ’t  is  the  folly  of  a love-sick  girl. 

Come,  give  it  me,  or  I will  say ’t  is 
mine, 

And  that  you  stole  it. 

Free.  0,  you  will  not  dare 

To  utter  such  a falsehood  ! 

Viet.  I not  dare  ? 

Look  in  my  face,  and  say  if  there  is 
aught 

I have  not  dared,  I would  not  dare  for 
thee  ! 

(She  rushes  into  his  arms.) 

Free.  ’T  is  thou  ! ’t  is  thou  ! Yes  ; 
yes  ; my  heart’s  elected  ! 

My  dearest-dear  Victorian  ! my  soul’s 
heaven  ! 

Where  hast  thou  been  so  long  ? Why 
didst  thou  leave  me  ? 

Viet.  Ask  me  not  now,  my  dearest 
Preciosa. 

Let  me  forget  we  ever  have  been  parted  ! 

Free.  Hadst  thou  not  come  — 

Viet.  I pray  thee,  do  not  chide 
me  ! 

Prec.  I should  have  perished  here 
among  these  Gypsies. 

Viet.  Forgive  me,  sweet  ! for  what  I 
made  thee  suffer. 

Think’ st  thou  this  heart  could  feel  a 
moment’s  joy, 

Thou  being  absent  ? 0,  believe  it 

not ! 

Indeed,  since  that  sad  hour  I have  not 
slept, 

For  thinking  of  the  wrong  I did  to 
thee  ! 

Dost  thou  forgive  me  ? Say,  wilt  thou 
forgive  me  ? 

Prec.  I have  forgiven  thee.  Ere  those 
words  of  anger 

Were  in  the  book  of  Heaven  writ  down 
against  thee, 

J had  forgiven  thee. 


Vid.  I ’m  the  veriest  fool 

That  walks  the  earth,  to  have  believed 
thee  false. 

It  was  the  Count  of  Lara  — 

Prec.  That  bad  man 

Has  worked  me  harm  enough.  Hast 
thou  not  heard  — 

Viet.  I have  heard  all.  And  yet  speak 
on,  speak  on  ! 

Let  me  but  hear  thy  voice,  and  I am 
happy ; 

For  every  tone,  like  some  sweet  incanta- 
tion, 

Calls  up  the  buried  past  to  plead  for  me. 

Speak,  my  beloved,  speak  into  my  heart, 

Whatever  fills  and  agitates  thine  own. 

( They  walk  aside. ) 

Hyp.  All  gentle  quarrels  in  the  pas- 
toral poets, 

All  passionate  love  scenes  in  the  best 
romances, 

All  chaste  embraces  on  the  public  stage, 

All  soft  adventures,  which  the  liberal 
stars 

Have  winked  at,  as  the  natural  course 
of  things, 

Have  been  surpassed  here  by  my  friend, 
the  student, 

And  this  sweet  Gypsy  lass,  fair  Preci- 
osa ! 

Prec.  Seiior  Hypolito  ! I kiss  your 
hand. 

Pray,  shall  I tell  your  fortune  ? 

Hyp.  Not  to-night  ; 

For,  should  you  treat  me  as  you  did 
Victorian, 

And  send  me  back  to  marry  maids  for- 
lorn, 

My  wedding  day  would  last  from  now 
till  Christmas. 

Chispa  (within).  What  ho  ! the  Gyp- 
sies, ho  ! Beltran  Cruzado  ! 

Halloo  ! halloo  ! halloo  ! halloo ! 

(Enters  hooted , with  a whip  and  lantern. ) 

Viet.  What  now  ? 

Why  such  a fearful  din  ? Hast  thou 
been  robbed  ? 

Chispa . Ay,  robbed  and  murdered  ; 
and  good  evening  to  you, 

My  worthy  masters. 

Viet.  Speak  ; what  brings  thee  here  ? 

Chispa  (to  Preciosa).  Good  news  from 
Court ; good  news  ! Beltran  Cru- 
zado, 

The  Count  of  the  Cales,  is  not  your  fa- 
ther, 


74  THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


But  your  true  father  has  returned  to 
Spain 

Laden  with  wealth.  You  are  no  more  a 
Gypsy. 

Viet.  Strange  as  a Moorish  tale  ! 

Chispa.  And  we  have  all 

Been  drinking  at  the  tavern  to  your 
health, 

As  wells  drink  in  November,  when  it 
rains. 

Viet.  Where  is  the  gentleman  ? 

Chispa.  As  the  old  song  says, 

His  body  is  in  Segovia, 

His  soul  is  in  Madrid. 

Free.  Is  this  a dream  ? 0,  if  it  be  a 
dream, 

Let  me  sleep  on,  and  do  not  wake  me 
yet ! 

Repeat  thy  story  ! Say  I ’m  not  de- 
ceived ! 

Say  that  I do  not  dream  ! I am  awake ; 

This  is  the  Gypsy  camp ; this  is  Victo- 
rian, 

And  this  his  friend,  Hypolito  ! Speak  ! 
speak  ! 

Let  me  not  wake  and  find  it  all  a 
dream  ! 

Viet.  It  is  a dream,  sweet  child  ! a 
waking  dream, 

A blissful  certainty,  a vision  bright 

Of  that  rare  happiness,  which  even  on 
earth 

Heaven  gives  to  those  it  loves.  Now 
art  thou  rich, 

As  thou  wast  ever  beautiful  and  good ; 

And  I am  now  the  beggar. 

Free,  (giving  him  her  hand).  I have 
still 

A hand  to  give. 

Chispa  (aside).  And  I have  two  to 
take. 

I ’ve  heard  my  grandmother  say,  that 
Heaven  gives  almonds 

To  those  who  have  no  teeth.  That ’s 
nuts  to  crack. 

I ’ve  teeth  to  spare,  but  where  shall  I 
find  almonds  ? 

Viet.  What  more  of  this  strange 
story  ? 

Chispa.  Nothing  more. 

Your  friend,  Don  Carlos,  is  now  at  the 
village 

Showing  to  Pedro  Crespo,  the  Alcalde, 

The  proofs  of  what  I tell  you.  The  old 
hag, 

"Who  stole  you  in  your  childhood,  has 
confessed  ; 


And  probably  they  ’ll  hang  her  for  the 
crime, 

To  make  the  celebration  more  complete. 
Viet.  No  ; let  it  be  a~  day  of  general 

joy ; 

Fortune  comes  well  to  all,  that  comes 
not  late. 

Now  let  us  join  Don  Carlos. 

Hyp.  ' So  farewell, 

The  student’s  wandering  life  ! Sweet 
serenades, 

Sung  under  ladies’  windows  in  the 
night, 

And  all  that  makes  vacation  beautiful  ! 
To  you,  ye  cloistered  shades  of  Alcala, 
To  you,  ye  radiant  visions  of  romance, 
Written  in  books,  but  here  surpassed  by 
truth, 

The  Bachelor  Hypolito  returns, 

And  leaves  the  Gypsy  with  the  Spanish 
Student. 


Scene  VI.  — A pass  in  the  Guadarrama 
mountains.  Early  morning.  A mule- 
teer crosses  the  stage , sitting  sideways  on 
his  mule,  and  lighting  a paper  cigar  with 
flint  and  steel. 

SONG. 

If  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden, 

Awake  and  open  thy  door, 

’T  is  the  break  of  day,  and  we  must  away, 
O’er  meadow,  and  mount,  and  inoor. 

Wait  not  to  find  thy  slippers, 

But  come  with  thy  naked  feet  ; 

We  shall  have  to  pass  through  the  dewy 
grass, 

And  waters  wide  and  fleet. 

(Disappears  down  the  pass.  Enter  a 
Monk.  A shepherd  appears  on  the 
rocks  above.) 

Monk.  Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena.  Ola ! 
good  man  ! 

Shep.  Ola ! 

Monk.  Is  this  the  road  to  Segovia  ? 
Shep.  It  is,  your  reverence. 

Monk.  How  far  is  it  ? 

Shep.  I do  not  know. 

Monk.  What  is  that  yonder  in  the 
valley  ? 

Shep.  San  Ildefonso. 

Monk.  A long  way  to  breakfast. 

Shep.  Ay,  marry. 

Monk.  Are  there  robbers  in  these 
mountains  ? 

Shep.  Yes,  and  worse  than  that. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


75 


Monk.  Wliat  ? 

Shep.  Wolves. 

Monk.  Santa  Maria  ! Come  with  me 
to  San  Ildefonso,  and  thou  shalt  be  well 
rewarded. 

Shep.  What  wilt  thou  give  me  ? 

Monk.  An  Agnus  Dei  and  my  bene- 
diction. 

( They  disappear.  A mounted  Contraban- 
dista  passes,  wrapped  in  his  cloak , and 
a gun  at  his  saddle-how.  He  goes  down 
the  pass  singing. ) 

SONG. 

Worn  with  speed  is  my  good  steed, 

And  I march  me  hurried,  worried  ; 
Onward,  caballito  mio, 

With  the  white  star  in  thy  forehead  ! 
Onward,  for  here  comes  the  Ronda, 

And  I hear  their  rifles  crack  ! 

Ay,  jaleo!  Ay,  ay, jaleo! 

Ay,  jaleo  ! They  cross  our  track. 

(Song  dies  aivay.  Enter  Preciosa,  on 
horseback,  attended  by  Victorian,  Hy- 
polito,  Don  Carlos,  and  Chispa,  on 
foot,  and  armed. ) 

Viet.  This  is  the  highest  point.  Here 
let  us  rest. 

See,  Preciosa,  see  how  all  about  us 
Kneeling,  like  hooded  friars,  the  misty 
mountains 

Receive  the  benediction  of  the  sun  ! 

O glorious  sight  ! 

Prec.  Most  beautiful  indeed  ! 

Hyp.  Most  wonderful ! 

Viet.  And  in  the  vale  below, 

Where  yonder  steeples  flash  like  lifted 
halberds, 

San  Ildefonso,  from  its  noisy  belfries, 
Sends  up  a salutation  to  the  morn, 

As  if  an  army  smote  their  brazen  shields, 
And  shouted  victory  ! 

Prec.  And  which  way  lies 

Segovia  ? 

Viet.  At  a great  distance  yonder. 
Dost  thou  not  see  it  ? 

Prec.  No.  I do  not  see  it. 

Viet.  The  merest  flaw  that  dents  the 
horizon’s  edge. 

There,  yonder  ! 

Hyp.  ’T  is  a notable  old  town, 

Boasting  an  ancient  Roman  aqueduct, 
And  an  Alcazar,  builded  by  the  Moors, 
Wherein,  you  may  remember,  poor  Gil 
Bias 

Was  fed  on  Pan  del  Rey.  0,  many  a 
time 


Out  of  its  grated  windows  have  I looked 
Hundreds  of  feet  plumb  down  to  the 
Eresma, 

That,  like  a serpent  through  the  valley 
creeping, 

Glides  at  its  foot. 

Prec.  0 yes  ! I see  it  now, 

Yet  rather  with  my  heart  than  with  mine 
eyes, 

So  faint  it  is.  And  all  my  thoughts 
sail  thither, 

Freighted  with  prayers  and  hopes,  and 
forward  urged 

Against  all  stress  of  accident,  as  in 
The  Eastern  Tale,  against  the  wind  and 
tide 

Great  ships  were  drawn  to  the  Magnetic 
Mountains, 

And  there  were  wrecked,  and  perished 
in  the  sea  ! (She  weeps.) 

Viet.  0 gentle  spirit  ! Thou  didst 
bear  unmoved 

Blasts  of  adversity  and  frosts  of  fate  ! 
But  the  first  ray  of  sunshine  that  falls  on 
thee 

Melts  thee  to  tears  ! 0,  let  thy  weary 
heart 

Lean  upon  mine  ! and  it  shall  faint  no 
more, 

Nor  thirst,  nor  hunger  ; but  be  com- 
forted 

And  filled  with  my  affection. 

Prec.  Stay  no  longer  ! 

My  father  waits.  Methinks  I see  him 
there, 

Now  looking  from  the  window,  and  now 
watching 

Each  sound  of  wheels  or  footfall  in  the 
street, 

And  saying,  “ Hark  ! she  comes  !”  O 
father  ! father  ! 

( They  descend  the  pass.  Chispa  remains 
behind. ) 

Chispa.  I have  a father,  too,  but  he  is 
a dead  one.  Alas  and  alack-a-day  ! 
Poor  was  I born,  and  poor  do  I remain. 
I neither  win  nor  lose.  Thus  I wag 
through  the  world,  half  the  time  on 
foot,  and  the  other  half  walking  ; and 
always  as  merry  as  a thunder-storm  in 
the  night.  And  so  we  plough  along,  as 
the  fly  said  to  the  ox.  Who  knows  what 
may  happen  ? Patience,  and  shuffle  the 
cards  ! I am  not  yet  so  bald  that  you 
can  see  my  brains  ; and  perhaps,  after  all, 
I shall  some  day  go  to  Rome,  and  come 
back  Saint  Peter.  Benedicite  ! [Exit. 


76 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


( A pause.  Then  enter  Bartolome  wildly , 
as  if  in  pursuit , with  a carbine  in  his 
hand.) 

Bart.  They  passed  this  way  ! I hear 
their  horses’  hoo!s  ! 

Yonder  1 see  them  ! Come,  sweet  cara- 
millo, 

This  serenade  shall  be  the  Gypsy’s  last  ! 


( Fires  down  the  pass.) 

Ha  ! ha  ! Well  whistled,  my  sweet  cara- 
millo  ! 

Well  whistled  ! — I have  missed  her ! — 
0 my  God  ! 

{The  shot  is  returned.  Bartolome 
falls). 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


CARILLON. 

In  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges, 

In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city, 

As  the  evening  shades  descended, 
Low  and  loud  and  sweetly  blended, 
Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times, 

And  changing  like  a poet’s  rhymes, 
Rang  the  beautiful  wild  chimes 
From  the  Belfry  in  the  market 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

Then,  with  deep  sonorous  clangor 
Calmly  answering  their  sweet  anger, 
When  the  wrangling  bells  had  ended, 
Slowly  struck  the  clock  eleven, 

And,  from  out  the  silent  heaven, 
Silence  on  the  town  descended. 
Silence,  silence  everywhere, 

On  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 

Save  that  footsteps  here  and  there 
Of  some  burgher  home  returning, 

By  the  street  lamps  faintly  burning, 
For  a moment  woke  the  echoes 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

But  amid  my  broken  slumbers 
Still  1 heard  those  magic  numbers, 

As  they  loud  proclaimed  the  flight 
And  stolen  marches  of  the  night ; 

Till  their  chimes  in  sweet  collision 
Mingled  with  each  wandering  vision, 
Mingled  with  the  fortune-telling 
Gypsy-bands  of  dreams  and  fancies, 
Which  amid  the  waste  expanses 
Of  the  silent  land  of  trances 
Have  their  solitary  dwelling  ; 

All  else  seemed  asleep  in  Bruges, 

In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 


And  I thought  how  like  these  chimes 
Are  the  poet’s  airy  rhymes, 

All  his  rhymes  and  roundelays, 

His  conceits,  and  songs,  and  ditties, 
From  the  belfry  of  his  brain, 

Scattered  downward,  though  in  vain, 

On  the  roofs  and  stones  of  cities  ! 

For  by  night  the  drowsy  ear 
Under  its  curtains  cannot  hear, 

And  by  day  men  go  their  ways, 

Hearing  the  music  as  they  pass. 

But  deeming  it  no  more,  alas  ! 

Than  the  hollow  sound  of  brass. 

Yet  perchance  a sleepless  wight, 
Lodging  at  some  humble  inn 
In  the  narrow  lanes  of  life, 

When  the  dusk  and  hush  of  night 
Shut  out  the  incessant  din 
Of  daylight  and  its  toil  and  strife, 

May  listen  with  a calm  delight 
To  the  poet’s  melodies, 

Till  he  hears,  or  dreams  he  hears, 
Intermingled  with  the  song, 

Thoughts  that  he  has  cherished  long  ; 
Hears  amid  the  chime  and  singing 
The  bells  of  his  own  village  ring- 
ing, 

And  wakes,  and  finds  his  slumberous 

eyes 

Wet  with  most  delicious  tears. 


Thus  dreamed  I,  as  by  night  I lay 
In  Bruges,  at  the  Fleur-d^-Ble, 
Listening  with  a wild  delight 
To  the  chimes  that,  through  the  night, 
Rang  their  changes  from  the  Belfry 
Of  that  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 


THE  BELFRY 

THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES. 

In  the  market-place  of  Bruges  stands 
the  belfry  old  and  brown  ; 

Thrice  consumed  and  thrice  rebuilded, 
still  it  watches  o’er  the  town. 

As  the  summer  morn  was  breaking,  on 
that  lofty  tower  I stood, 

And  the  world  threw  off  the  darkness, 
like  the  weeds  of  widowhood. 

Thick  with  towns  and  hamlets  studded, 
and  with  streams  and  vapors  gray, 

Like  a shield  embossed  with  silver, 
round  and  vast  the  landscape  lay. 

At  my  feet  the  city  slumbered.  From 
its  chimneys,  here  and  there, 

Wreaths  of  snow-white  smoke,  ascend- 
ing, vanished,  ghost-like,  into  air. 

Not  a sound  rose  from  the  city  at  that 
early  morning  hour, 

But  I heard  a heart  of  iron  beating  in 
the  ancient  tower. 

From  their  nests  beneath  the  rafters  sang 
the  swallows  wild  and  high  ; 

And  the  world,  beneath  me  sleeping, 
seemed  more  distant  than  the  sky. 

Then  most  musical  and  solemn,  bringing 
back  the  olden  times, 

With  their  strange,  unearthly  changes 
rang  the  melancholy  chimes, 

Like  the  psalms  from  some  old  cloister, 
when  the  nuns  sing  in  the  choir  ; 

And  the  great  bell  tolled  among  them, 
like  the  chanting  of  a friar. 

Visions  of  the  days  departed,  shadowy 
phantoms  filled  my  brain  ; 

They  who  live  in  history  only  seemed  to 
walk  the  earth  again  ; 

All  the  Foresters  of  Flanders,  — mighty 
Baldwin  Bras  de  Fer, 

Lyderick  du  Bucq  and  Cressy  Philip, 
Guy  de  Dampierre.  ( 


OF  BRUGES.  77 

I beheld  the  pageants  splendid  that 
adorned  those  days  of  old  ; 

Stately  dames,  like  queens  attended, 
knights  who  bore  the  Fleece  of 
Gold 

Lombard  and  Venetian  merchants  with 
deep-laden  argosies  ; 

Ministers  from  twenty  nations ; more 
than  royal  pomp  and  ease. 

I beheld  proud  Maximilian,  kneeling 
humbly  on  the  ground  ; 

I beheld  the  gentle  Mary,  hunting  with 
her  hawk  and  hound  ; 

And  her  lighted  bridal-chamber,  where 
a duke  slept  with  the  queen, 

And  the  armed  guard  around  them,  and 
the  sword  unsheathed  between. 

I beheld  the  Flemish  weavers,  with  Na- 
mur and  Juliers  bold, 

Marching  homeward  from  the  bloody 
battle  of  the  Spurs  of  Gold  ; 

Saw  the  fight  at  Minnewater,  saw  the 
White  Hoods  moving  west, 

Saw  great  Artevelde  victorious  scale  the 
Golden  Dragon’s  nest. 

And  again  the  whiskered  Spaniard  all 
the  land  with  terror  smote  ; 

And  again  the  wild  alarum  sounded  from 
the  tocsin’s  throat ; 

Till  the  bell  of  Ghent  responded  o’er  la- 
goon and  dike  of  sand, 

“I  am  Roland  ! I am  Roland  ! there  is 
victory  in  the  land  ! ” 

Then  the  sound  of  drums  aroused  me. 
The  awakened  city’s  roar 

Chased  the  phantoms  I had  summoned 
back  into  their  graves  once  more. 

Hours  had  passed  away  like  minutes ; 
and,  before  I was  aware, 

Lo  ! the  shadow  of  the  belfry  crossed 
the  sun-illumined  square. 


78 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


A GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE. 

This  is  the  place.  Stand  still,  my  steed, 
Let  me  review  the  scene, 

And  summon  from  the  shadowy  Past 
The  forms  that  once  have  been. 

The  Past  and  Present  here  unite 
Beneath  Time’s  flowing  tide, 

Like  footprints  hidden  by  a brook, 

But  seen  on  either  side. 

Here  runs  the  highway  to  the  town  ; 

There  the  green  lane  descends, 
Through  which  1 walked  to  church  with 
thee, 

0 gentlest  of  my  friends  ! 

The  shadow  of  the  linden-trees 
Lay  moving  on  the  grass  ; 

Between  them  and  the  moving  boughs, 
A shadow,  thou  didst  pass. 

Thy  dress  was  like  the  lilies, 

And  thy  heart  as  pure  as  they  : 

One  of  God’s  holy  messengers 
Did  walk  with  me  that  day. 

1 saw  the  branches  of  the  trees 
Bend  down  thy  touch  to  meet, 

The  clover-blossoms  in  the  grass 
Rise  up  to  kiss  thy  feet. 

“ Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 
Of  earth  and  folly  born!  ” 

Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 
On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn. 

Through  the  closed  blinds  the  golden  sun 
Poured  in  a dusty  beam, 

Like  the  celestial  ladder  seen 
By  Jacob  in  his  dream. 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  wind, 
Sweet-scented  with  the  hay, 

Turned  o’er  the  hymn-book’s  fluttering 

leaves 

That  on  the  window  lay. 

Long  was  the  good  man’s  sermon, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me  ; 

For  he  spake  of  Ruth  the  beautiful, 

And  still  I thought  of  thee. 


Long  was  the  prayer  he  uttered, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me  ; 

For  in  my  heart  1 prayed  with  him, 

And  still  I thought  of  thee. 

But  now,  alas  ! the  place  seems  changed  ; 

Thou  art  no  longer  here  : 

Part  of  the  sunshine  of  the  scene 
With  thee  did  disappear. 

Though  thoughts,  deep-rooted  in  my 
heart, 

Like  pine-trees  dark  and  high, 

Subdue  the  light  of  noon,  and  breathe 
A low  and  ceaseless  sigh  ; 

This  memory  brightens  o’er  the  past, 

As  when  the  sun,  concealed 
Behind  some  cloud  that  near  us  hangs 
Shines  on  a distant  field. 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 

This  is  the  Arsenal.  From  floor  to  ceil- 
ing, 

Like  a huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished 
arms  ; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem 
pealing 

Startles  the  villages  with  strange 
alarms. 

Ah  ! what  a sound  will  rise,  how  wild 
and  dreary, 

When  the  death-angel  touches  those 
swift  keys  ! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 

Will  mingle  with  their  awful  sympho- 
nies ! 

I hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  cho- 
rus, 

The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone 
before  us, 

In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon 
hammer, 

Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the 
Norseman’s  song, 


NUREMBERG.  79 


And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O’er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar 
gong. 

I hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  pal- 
ace 

Wheels  out  his  battle-hell  with  dread- 
ful din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war- drums  made  of  ser- 
pent’s skin  ; 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning 
village  ; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy 
drowns  ; 

The  soldiers’  revels  in  the  midst  of  pil- 
lage  ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered 
towns  ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched 
asunder, 

The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing 
blade  ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 

The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  0 man,  with  such  discordant 
noises, 

With  such  accursed  instruments  as 
these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature’s  sweet  and  kind- 
ly voices, 

And  j arrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power,  that  fills  the  world 
with  terror, 

Were  half  the  wealth,  bestowed  on 
camps  and  courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from 
error, 

There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or 
forts  : 

The  warrior’s  name  would  be  a name  ab- 
horred ! 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift 
again 

Its  hand  against  a brother,  on  its  fore- 
head 

Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of 
Cain  ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long 
generations, 

The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and 
then  cease  ; 


And  like  a bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vi- 
brations, 

I hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ 
say,  “ Peace  ! ” 

Peace  ! and  no  longer  from  its  brazen 
portals 

The  blast  of  War’s  great  organ  shakes 
the  skies  ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 

The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


NUREMBERG. 

In  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz,  where  across 
broad  meadow-lands 
Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains, 
Nuremberg,  the  ancient,  stands. 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint 
old  town  of  art  and  song, 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables,  like 
the  rooks  that  round  them  throng  : 

Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the 
emperors,  rough  and  bold, 

Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time- 
defying,  centuries  old  ; 

And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boast- 
ed, in  their  uncouth  rhyme, 

That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched 
its  hand  through  every  clime. 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound 
with  many  an  iron  band, 

Stands  the  mighty  linden  planted  by 
Queen  Cunigunde’s  hand ; 

On  the  square  the  oriel  window,  where 
in  old  heroic  days 

gat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser 
Maximilian’s  praise. 

Everywhere  I see  around  me  rise  the 
wondrous  world  of  Art : 
Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture 
standing  in  the  common  mart  ; 

And  above  cathedral  doorways  saints  and 
bishops  carved  in  stone, 

By  a former  age  commissioned  as  apostles 
to  our  own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps 
enshrined  his  holy  dust, 

And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard 
from  age  to  age  their  trust ; 


80 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands 
a pix  of  sculpture  rare, 

Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising 
through  the  painted  air. 

Here,  when  Art  was  still  religion,  with  a 
simple,  reverent  heart, 

Lived  and  labored  Albrecht  Diirer,  the 
Evangelist  of  Art ; 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling 
still  with  busy  hand, 

Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking 
for  the  Better  Land. 

j Emigravit  is  the  inscription  on  the  tomb- 
stone where  he  lies  ; 

Dead  he  is  not,  but  departed,  — for  the 
artist  never  dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the 
sunshine  seems  more  fair, 

That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that 
he  once  has  breathed  its  air ! 

Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately, 
these  obscure  and  dismal  lanes, 
Walked  of  yore  the  Mastersingers,  chant- 
ing rude  poetic  strains. 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs  came 
they  to  the  friendly  guild, 
Building  nests  in  Fame’s  great  temple, 
as  in  spouts  the  swallows  build. 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he 
too  the  mystic  rhyme, 

And  the  smith  ins  iron  measures  ham- 
mered to  the  anvil’s  chime  ; 

Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom 
makes  the  flowers  of  poesy  bloom 
In  the  forge’s  dust  and  cinders,  in  the 
tissues  of  the  loom. 

Here  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-poet,  lau- 
reate of  the  gentle  craft, 

Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  in 
huge  folios  sang  and  laughed. 

But  his  house  is  now  an  ale-house,  with 
a nicely  sanded  floor, 

And  a garland  in  the  window,  and  his 
face  above  the  door  ; 

Painted  by  some  humble  artist,  as  in 
Adam  Puschman’s  song, 

As  the  old  man  gray  and  dove-like,  with 
his  great  beard  white  and  long. 


And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes 
to  drown  his  cark  and  care, 

Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in 
the  master’s  antique  chair. 

Vanished  is  the  ancient  splendor,  and 
before  my  dreamy  eye 

Wave  these  mingled  shapes  and  figures, 
like  a faded  tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,  win 
for  thee  the  world’s  regard ; 

But  thy  painter,  Albrecht  Diirer,  and 
Hans  Sachs  thy  cobbler-bard. 

Thus,  0 Nuremberg,  a wanderer  from  a 
region  far  away, 

As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  court-yards, 
sang  in  thought  his  careless  lay  : 

Gathering  from  the  pavement’s  crevice, 
as  a floweret  of  the  soil, 

The  nobility  of  labor,  — the  long  pedigree 
of  toil. 


THE  NOEMAN  BAEON. 

Dans  les  moments  de  la  vie  ou  la  reflexion  de- 
vient  pluscalme  et  plus  profonde,  ou  l’int6ret  et 
l’avarice  parlent  moins  haut  que  la  raison,  dans 
les  instants  de  chagrin  domestique,  de  maladie, 
et  de  peril  de  mort,  les  nobles  se  repentirent  de 
poss£der  des  serfs,  comme  d’une  chose  peu  agrd- 
able  & Dieu,  qui  avait  cr£e  tous  les  homines  a son 
image. 

Thierry,  Conquete  de  V Angleterre. 

In  his  chamber,  weak  and  dying, 

Was  the  Norman  baron  lying  ; 

Loud,  without,  the  tempest  thundered, 
And  the  castle-turret  shook. 

In  this  fight  was  Death  the  gainer, 

Spite  of  vassal  and  retainer, 

And  the  lands  his  sires  had  plundered, 
Written  in  the  Doomsday  Book. 

By  his  bed  a monk  was  seated, 

Who  in  humble  voice  repeated 
Many  a prayer  and  pater-noster, 

From  the  missal  on  his  knee  ; 

And,  amid  the  tempest  pealing, 

Sounds  of  bells  came  faintly  stealing, 
Bells,  that  from  the  neighboring  kloster 
Bang  for  the  Nativit}^ 

In  the  hall,  the  serf  and  vassal 
Held,  that  night,  their  Christmas  was- 
sail j 


EAIN  IN  SUMMER. 


81 


Many  a carol,  old  and  saintly, 

Sang  the  minstrels  and  the  waits  ; 

And  so  loud  these  Saxon  gleemen 
Sang  to  slaves  the  songs  ol  freemen, 
That  the  storm  was  heard  but  faintly, 
Knocking  at  the  castle-gates. 

Till  at  length  the  lays  they  chanted 
Reached  the  chamber  terror-haunted, 
Where  the  monk,  with  accents  holy, 
Whispered  at  the  baron’s  ear. 

Tears  upon  his  eyelids  glistened, 

As  he  paused  awhile  and  listened, 

And  the  dying  baron  slowly 

Turned  his  weary  head  to  bear. 

“ Wassail  for  the  kingly  stranger 
Born  and  cradled  in  a manger  ! 

King,  like  David,  priest,  like  Aaron, 
Christ  is  born  to  set  us  free ! ” 

And  the  lightning  showed  the  sainted 
Figures  on  the  casement  painted, 

And  exclaimed  the  shuddering  baron, 

“ Miserere,  Domine  ! ” 

In  that  hour  of  deep  contrition 
He  beheld,  with  clearer  vision, 

Through  all  outward  show  and  fashion, 
Justice,  the  Avenger,  rise. 

All  the  pomp  of  earth  had  vanished, 
Falsehood  and  deeeit  were  banished, 
Reason  spake  more  loud  than  passion, 
And  the  truth  wore  no  disguise. 

Every  vassal  of  his  banner, 

Every  serf  born  to  his  manor, 

All  those  wronged  and  wretched  crea- 
tures, 

By  his  hand  were  freed  again. 

And,  as  on  the  sacred  missal 
He  recorded  their  dismissal, 

Death  relaxed  his  iron  features, 

And  the  monk  replied,  4 4 Amen  ! ” 

Many  centuries  have  been  numbered 
Since  in  death  the  baron  slumbered 
By  the  convent’s  sculptured  portal, 

Mingling  with  the  common  dust  : 

But  the  good  deed,  through  the  ages 
Living  in  historic  pages, 

Brighter  grows  and  gleams  immortal, 
Unconsumed  by  moth  or  rust. 

6 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

After  the  dust  and  heat, 

In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 

In  the  narrow  lane, 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 
From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing 
spout ! 

Across  the  window-pane 
It  pours  and  pours  ; 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a muddy  tide, 

Like  a river  down  the  gutter  roars 
The  rain,  the  welcome  rain  ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 
At  the  twisted  brooks  ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 
Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 
Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighboring  school 
Come  the  boys, 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 
And  commotion  ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 
Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 
Ingulfs  them  in  its  whirling 
And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide, 

Like  a leopard’s  tawny  and  spotted  hide, 
Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 
How  welcome  is  the  rain  ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand  ; 

Lifting  the  yoke- encumbered  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 
The  clover-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 
From  the  well- watered  and  smoking  soil 
For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 
Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 


82 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man’s  spoken  word. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures,  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these, 

The  Poet  sees  ! 

He  can  behold 
Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air  ; 

And  from  each  ample  fold 
Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 
Scattering  everywhere 
The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 
Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told,  — 
Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 
For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 
Follows  the  water-drops 
Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  pro- 
found, 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 
Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground  ; 

And  sees  them,  wdien  the  rain  is  done, 
On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 
Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 
Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear, 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange, 
Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth, 
From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to 
earth  ; 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 
Of  things,  unseen  before, 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  forevermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 


TO  A CHILD. 

Dear  child  ! how  radiant  on  thy  moth- 
er’s knee, 

With  merry-making  eyes  and  jocund 
smiles, 

Thou  gazest  at  the  painted  tiles, 

Whose  figures  grace, 

With  many  a grotesque  form  and  face. 
The  ancient  chimney  of  thy  nursery  ! 
The  lady  with  the  gay  macaw, 

The  dancing  girl,  the  grave  bashaw 
With  bearded  lip  and  chin  ; 

And,  leaning  idly  o’er  his  gate, 

Beneath  the  imperial  fan  of  state, 

The  Chinese  mandarin. 

With  what  a look  of  proud  command 
Thou  sliakest  in  thy  little  hand 
The  coral  rattle  with  its  silver  bells, 
Making  a merry  tune  1 
Thousands  of  years  in  Indian  seas 
That  coral  grew,  by  slow  degrees, 

Until  some  deadly  and  wild  monsoon 
Dashed  it  on  Coromandel’s  sand  ! 

Those  silver  bells 
Reposed  of  yore, 

As  shapeless  ore, 

Far  down  in  the  deep-sunken  wells 
Of  darksome  mines, 

In  some  obscure  and  sunless  place, 
Beneath  huge  Chimborazo’s  base, 

Or  Potosi’s  o’erhanging  pines  ! 

And  thus  for  thee,  0 little  child, 
Through  many  a danger  and  escape, 

The  tall  ships  passed  the  stormy  cape  ; 
For  thee  in  foreign  lands  remote, 

Beneath  a burning,  tropic  clime, 

The  Indian  peasant,  chasing  the  wild 
goat, 

Himself  as  swift  and  wild, 

In  falling,  clutched  the  frail  arbute, 

The  fibres  of  whose  shallow  root, 

Uplifted  from  the  soil,  betrayed 
The  silver  veins  beneath  it  laid, 

The  buried  treasures  of  the  miser,  Time. 

But,  lo  ! thy  door  is  left  ajar  ! 

Thou  hearest  footsteps  from  afar  ! 

And,  at  the  sound, 

Thou  turnest  round 

With  quick  and  questioning  eyes, 

Like  one,  who,  in  a foreign  land, 

Beholds  on  every  hand 

Some  source  of  wonder  and  surprise  ! 

And,  restlessly,  impatiently, 

Thou  strives!,  struggles!,  to  be  free. 


TO  A CHILD. 


83 


The  four  walls  of  tliy  nursery 
Are  now  like  prison  walls  to  thee. 

Ho  more  tliy  mother’s  smiles, 

Ho  more  the  painted  tiles, 

Delight  thee,  nor  the  playthings  on  the 
floor, 

That  won  thy  little,  beating  heart  before  ; 
Thou  strugglest  for  the  open  door. 

Through  these  once  solitary  halls 
Thy  pattering  footstep  falls. 

The  sound  of  thy  merry  voice 
Makes  the  old  walls 
Jubilant,  and  they  rejoice 
With  the  joy  of  thv  young  heart, 

O’er  the  light  of  whose  gladness 
Ho  shadows  of  sadness 
From  the  sombre  background  of  memory 
start. 

Once,  ah,  once,  within  these  walls, 

One  whom  memory  oft  recalls, 

The  Father  of  his  Country,  dwelt. 

And  yonder  meadows  broad  and  damp 
The  fires  of  the  besieging  camp 
Encircled  with  a burning  belt. 

Up  and  down  these  echoing  stairs, 

Heavy  with  the  weight  of  cares, 

Sounded  his  majestic  tread  ; 

Yes,  within  this  very  room 
Sat  he  in  those  hours  of  gloom, 

Weary  both  in  heart  and  head. 

But  what  are  these  grave  thoughts  to 
thee  ? 

Out,  out ! into  the  open  air  ! 

Thy  only  dream  is  liberty, 

Thou  carest  little  how  or  where. 

I see  thee  eager  at  thy  play, 

How  shouting  to  the  apples  on  the  tree, 
With  cheeks  as  round  and  red  as  they  ; 
And  now  among  the  yellow  stalks, 
Among  the  flowering  shrubs  and  plants, 
As  restless  as  the  bee. 

Along  the  garden  walks, 

The  tracks  of  thy  small  carriage-wheels 
I trace  ; 

And  see  at  every  turn  how  they  efface 
Whole  villages  of  sand- roofed  tents, 

That  rise  like  golden  domes 
Above  the  cavernous  and  secret  homes 
Of  wandering  and  nomadic  tribes  of 
ants. 

Ah,  cruel  little  Tamerlane, 

Who,  with  thy  dreadful  reign, 

Dost  persecute  and  overwhelm 
These  hapless  Troglodytes  of  thy  realm  ! 


What  ! tired  already  ! with  those  sup- 
pliant looks, 

And  voice  more  beautiful  than  a poet’s 
books, 

Or  murmuring  sound  of  water  as  it  flow's, 
Thou  comest  back  to  parley  with  repose ! 
This  rustic  seat  in  the  old  apple-tree, 
With  its  o’erhanging  golden  canopy 
Of  leaves  illuminate  with  autumnal  hues, 
And  shining  with  the  argent  light  of 
dew7s, 

Shall  for  a season  be  our  place  of  rest. 
Beneath  us,  like  an  oriole’s  pendent 
nest, 

From  which  the  laughing  birds  have 
taken  wing. 

By  thee  abandoned,  hangs  thy  vacant 
swing. 

Dream-like  the  waters  of  the  river 
gleam  ; 

A sailless  vessel  drops  adowm  the  stream, 
And  like  it,  to  a sea  as  wide  and  deep, 
Thou  driftest  gently  down  the  tides  oi 
sleep. 

0 child  ! 0 new-born  denizen 
Of  life’s  great  city  ! on  thy  head 
The  glory  of  the  morn  is  shed, 

Like  a celestial  benison  ! 

Here  at  the  portal  thou  dost  stand, 

And  with  thy  little  hand 

Thou  openest  the  mysterious  gate 

Into  the  future’s  undiscovered  land. 

1 see  its  valves  expand, 

As  at  the  touch  of  Fate  ! 

Into  those  realms  of  love  and  hate, 

Into  that  darkness  blank  and  drear, 

By  some  prophetic  feeling  taught, 

I launch  the  bold,  adventurous  thought, 
Freighted  with  hope  and  fear  ; 

As  upon  subterranean  streams, 

In  caverns  unexplored  and  dark, 

Men  sometimes  launch  a fragile  bark, 
Laden  with  flickering  fire, 

And  watch  its  swift-receding  beams, 
Until  at  length  they  disappear, 

And  in  the  distant  dark  expire. 

By  what  astrology  of  fear  or  hope 
Dare  I to  cast  thy  horoscope  ! 

Like  the  new  moon  thy  life  appears  ; 

A little  strip  of  silver  light, 

And  widening  outward  into  night 
The  shadowy  disk  of  future  years 
And  yet  upon  its  outer  rim, 

A luminous  circle,  faint  and  dim., 

And  scarcely  visible  to  us  here,, 


84 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Rounds  and  completes  the  perfect 
sphere  ; 

A prophecy  and  intimation, 

A pale  and  feeble  adumbration, 

Of  the  great  world  of  light,  that  lies 
Behind  all  human  destinies. 

Ah  ! if  thy  fate,  with  anguish  fraught, 
Should  be  to  wet  the  dusty  soil 
With  the  hot  tears  and  sweat  of  toil,  — 
To  struggle  with  imperious  thought, 
Until  the  overburdened  brain, 

Weary  with  labor,  faint  with  pain. 

Like  a jarred  pendulum,  retain 
Only  its  motion,  not  its  power,  — 
Remember,  in  that  perilous  hour. 

When  most  afflicted  and  oppressed. 
From  labor  there  shall  come  forth  rest. 

And  if  a more  auspicious  fate 
On  thy  advancing  steps  await. 

Still  let  it  ever  be  thy  pride 
To  linger  by  the  laborer’s  side  ; 

With  words  of  sympathy  or  song 
To  cheer  the  dreary  march  along 
Of  the  great  army  of  the  poor, 

O’er  desert  sand,  o’er  dangerous  moor. 
Nor  to  thyself  the  task  shall  be 
Without  reward  ; for  thou  slialt  learn 
The  wisdom  early  to  discern 
True  beauty  in  utility  ; 

As  great  Pythagoras  of  yore, 

Standing  beside  the  blacksmith’s  door, 
And  hearing  the  hammers,  as  they  smote 
The  anvils  with  a different  note, 

Stole  from  the  varying  tones,  that  hung 
Vibrant  on  every  iron  tongue. 

The  secret  of  the  sounding  wire, 

And  formed  the  seven-chorded  lyre. 

Enough  ! I will  not  play  the  Seer  ; 

I will  no  longer  strive  to  ope 
The  mystic  volume,  where  appear 
The  herald  Hope,  forerunning  Fear, 

And  Fear,  the  pursuivant  of  Hope. 

Thy  destiny  remains  untold  ; 

For,  like  Acestes’  shaft  of  old, 

The  swift  thought  kindles  as  it  flies, 
And  burns  to  ashes  in  the  skies. 


TRIE  OCCULTATION  OF  ORION. 

I saw,  as  in  a dream  sublime, 

The  balance  in  the  hand  of  Time. 

O’er  East  and  West  its  beam  impended  ; 
And  day,  with  all  its  hours  of  light, 
Was  slowly  sinking  out  of  sight, 


While,  opposite,  the  scale  of  night 
Silently  with  the  stars  ascended. 

Like  the  astrologers  of  eld, 

In  that  bright  vision  I beheld 
Greater  and  deeper  mysteries. 

I saw,  with  its  celestial  keys, 

Its  chords  of  air,  its  frets  of  fire. 

The  Samian’s  great  iEolian  lyre, 

Rising  through  all  its  sevenfold  bars, 
From  earth  unto  the  fixed  stars. 

And  through  the  dewy  atmosphere, 

Not  only  could  I see,  but  hear. 

Its  wondrous  and  harmonious  strings, 

In  sweet  vibration,  sphere  b}^  sphere, 
From  Dian’s  circle  light  and  near, 
Onward  to  vaster  and  wider  rings, 
Where,  chanting  through  his  beard  of 
snows. 

Majestic,  mournful,  Saturn  goes, 

And  down  the  sunless  realms  of  space 
Reverberates  the  thunder  of  his  bass. 

Beneath  the  sky’s  triumphal  arch 
This  music  sounded  like  a march. 

And  with  its  chorus  seemed  to  be 
Preluding  some  great  tragedy. 

Sirius  was  rising  in  the  east ; 

And,  slow  ascending  one  by  one, 

The  kindling  constellations  shone. 

Begirt  with  many  a blazing  star. 

Stood  the  great  giant  Algebar, 

Orion,  hunter  of  the  beast  ! 

His  sword  hung  gleaming  by  his  side, 
And,  on  his  arm,  the  lion’s  hide 
Scattered  across  the  midnight  air 
The  golden  radiance  of  its  hair. 

The  moon  was  pallid,  but  not  faint  ; 
And  beautiful  as  some  fair  saint, 
Serenely  moving  on  her  way 
In  hours  of  trial  and  dismay. 

As  if  she  heard  the  voice  of  God, 
Unharmed  with  naked  feet  she  trod 
Upon  the  hot  and  burning  stars, 

As  on  the  glowing  coals  and  bars, 

That  were  to  prove  her  strength,  and  try 
Her  holiness  and  her  purity. 

J Thus  moving  on,  with  silent  pace, 

■And  triumph  in  her  sweet,  pale  face, 

| She  reached  the  station  of  Orion. 

| Aghast  he  stood  in  strange  alarm  ! 
i And  suddenly  from  his  outstretched  arm 
Down  fell  the  red  skin  of  the  lion 
Into  the  river  at  his  feet. 

| His  mighty  club  no  longer  beat 


THE  BRIDGE. 


85 


The  forehead  of  the  bull  ; but  he 
Reeled  as  of  yore  beside  the  sea, 

When,  blinded  by  (Enopion, 

He  sought  the  blacksmith  at  his  forge, 
And,  climbing  up  the  mountain  gorge, 
Fixed  his  blank  eyes  upon  the  sun. 

Then,  through  the  silence  overhead. 

An  angel  with  a trumpet  said, 

“ Forevermore,  forevermore, 

The  reign  of  violence  is  o’er  ! ” _ 

And,  like  an  instrument  that  flings 
Its  music  on  another’s  strings, 

The  trumpet  of  the  angel  cast 
Upon  the  heavenly  lyre  its  blast, 

And  on  from  sphere  to  sphere  the  words 
Re-echoed  down  the  burning  chords,  — 
“ Forevermore,  forevermore, 

The  reign  of  violence  is  o’er  ! ” 


THE  BRIDGE. 

I stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 

As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 
And  the  moon  rose  o’er  the  city, 

Behind  the  dark  church 'tower. 

I saw  her  bright  reflection 
In  the  waters  under  me, 

Like  a golden  goblet  falling 
And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 
Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 

The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 
Gleamed  .redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 
The  wavering  shadows  lay, 

And  the  current  that  came  from  the 
ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away  ; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 
Rose  the  belated  tide, 

And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  seaweed  lloated  wide. 


And  like  those  waters  rushing 
Among  the  wooden  piers, 

A flood  of  thoughts  came  o’er  me 
That  tilled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  0 howT  often, 

In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky  ! 

How  often,  0 how  often, 

1 had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 
Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 
O’er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide  ! 

For  my  heart  washot  and  restless, 

And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  1 could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea  ; 

And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 
Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 
Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I think  how  many  thousands 
Of  care-encumbered  men, 

Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 
Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I see  the  long  procession 
Still  passing  to  and  fro, 

The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow  ! 

And  forever  and  forever, 

As  long  as  the  river  flows, 

As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 

As  long  as  life  has  woes  ; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 

And  its  wavering  image  here. 


TO  THE  DRIVING  CLOUD. 

Gloomy  and  dark  art  thou,  0 chief  of  the  mighty  Omahas  ; 

Gloomy  and  dark  as  the  driving  cloud,  whose  name  thou  hast  taken  ! 
Wrapt  in  thy  scarlet  blanket,  1 see  thee  stalk  through  the  city’s 
Narrow  and  populous  streets,  as  once  by  the  margin  of  rivers 
Stalked  those  birds  unknown,  that  have  left  us  only  their  footprints. 
What,  in  a few  short  years,  will  remain  of  thy  race  but  the  footprints  ? 


86 


SONGS. 


How  canst  thou  walk  these  streets,  who  hast  trod  the  green  turf  of  the  prairies  \ 
How  canst  thou  breathe  this  air,  who  hast  breathed  the  sweet  air  of  the  mountains  ? 
Ah  ! ’tis  in  vain  that  with  lordly  looks  of  disdain  thou  dost  challenge 
Looks  of  disdain  in  return,  and  question  these  walls  and  these  pavements, 
Claiming  the  soil  for  thy  hunting-grounds,  while  down-trodden  millions 
Starve  in  the  garrets  of  Europe,  and  cry  from  its  caverns  that  they,  too. 

Have  been  created  heirs  of  the  earth,  and  claim  its  division  ! 

Back,  then,  back  to  thy  woods  in  the  regions  west  of  the  Wabash  ! 

There  as  a monarch  thou  reignest.  In  autumn  the  leaves  of  the  maple 
Pave  the  floors  of  thy  palace-halls  with  gold,  and  in  summer 
Pine-trees  waft  through  its  chambers  the  odorous  breath  of  their  branches. 

There  thou  art  strong  and  great,  a hero,  a tamer  of  horses  ! 

There  thou  chasest  the  stately  stag  on  the  banks  of  the  Elkhorn, 

Or  by  the  roar  of  the  Running- Water,  or  where  the  Omaha 

Calls  thee,  and  leaps  through  the  wild  ravine  like  a brave  of  the  Blackfeet  ! 

Hark  ! what  murmurs  arise  from  the  heart  of  those  mountainous  deserts  ? 

Is  it  the  cry  of  the  Foxes  and  Crows,  or  the  mighty  Behemoth, 

Who,  unharmed,  on  his  tusks  once  caught  the  bolts  of  the  thunder, 

And  now  lurks  in  his  lair  to  destroy  the  race  of  the  red  man  ? 

Far  more  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the  Crows  and  the  Foxes, 

Far  more  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the  tread  of  Behemoth, 

Lo  ! the  big  thunder-canoe,  that  steadily  breasts  the  Missouri’s 
Merciless  current  ! and  yonder,  afar  on  the  prairies,  the  camp-fires 
Gleam  through  the  night ; and  the  cloud  of  dust  in  the  gray  of  the  daybreak 
Marks  not  the  buffalo’s  track,  nor  the  Mandan’s  dexterous  horse-race  ; 

It  is  a caravan,  whitening  the  desert  where  dwell  the  Camanches  ! 

Ha  ! how  the  breath  of  these  Saxons  and  Celts,  like  the  blast  of  the  east- wind, 
Drifts  evermore  to  the  west  the  scanty  smokes  of  thy  wigwams  ! 


SONGS. 


SEAWEED. 

When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 
The  gigantic 

Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 
The  toiling  surges, 

Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks  : 

From  Bermuda’s  reefs  ; from  edges 
Of  sunken  ledges, 

In  some  far-off,  bright  Azore  ; 

From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing, 
Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador  ; 

From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 
The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides  ; 


And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 
Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas  ; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 
On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main  ; 

Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 
Of  sandy  beaches, 

All  have  found  repose  again. 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 
Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet’s  soul,  erelong 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 

Floats  some  fragment  of  a song  : 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted, 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth  ; 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY. 


87 


From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 
Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth  ; 

From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavor 
That  forever 

Wrestle  with  the  tides  of  Fate  ; 

From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 
Tempest-shattered, 

Floating  waste  and  desolate  ; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 
On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  heart ; 

Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depart. 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a feeling  of  sadness  comes  o’er  me 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist  : 

A feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 

And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 

Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music,  * 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 
Life’s  endless  toil  and  endeavor  ; 

And  to-night  I long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 
As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 


Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 
And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 

Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 


Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 
The  restless  pulse  of  care, 

And  come  like  the  benediction 
That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  tlie  treasured  volume 
The  poem  of  thy  choice, 

And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 
The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 
Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY. 

The  day  is  ending, 

The  night  is  descending; 

The  marsh  is  frozen, 

The  river  dead. 

Through  clouds  like  ashes 
The  red  sun  flashes 
On  village  windows 
That  glimmer  red. 

The  snow  recommences ; 

The  buried  fences 
Mark  no  longer 

The  road  o’er  the  plain  ; 

While  through  the  meadows, 
Like  fearful  shadows, 

Slowly  passes 
A funeral  train. 

The  bell  is  pealing, 

And  every  feeling 
Within  me  responds 
To  the  dismal  knell ; 

Shadows  are  trailing, 

My  heart  is  bewailing 
And  tolling  within 
Like  a funeral  bell. 


88 


SONGS. 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG-BOOK. 

Welcome,  my  old  friend, 

Welcome  to  a foreign  fireside, 

While  the  sullen  gales  of  autumn 
Shake  the  windows. 

The  ungrateful  world 
Has,  it  seems,  dealt  harshly  with  thee, 
Since,  beneath  the  skies  of  Denmark, 
First  I met  thee. 

There  are  marks  of  age, 

There  are  thumb-marks  on  thy  margin, 
Made  by  hands  that  clasped  thee  rudely, 
At  the  alehouse. 

Soiled  and  dull  thou  art ; 

Yellow  are  thy  time-worn  pages, 

As  the  russet,  rain-molested 
Leaves  of  autumn. 

Thou  art  stained  with  wine 
Scattered  from  hilarious  goblets, 

As  the  leaves  with  the  libations 
Of  Olympus. 

Yet  dost  thou  recall 

Days  departed,  half-forgotten, 

When  in  dreamy  youth  I wandered 
By  the  Baltic,  — 

When  I paused  to  hear 
The  old  ballad  of  King  Christian 
Shouted  from  suburban  taverns 
In  the  twilight. 

Thou  recallest  bards, 

Who,  in  solitary  chambers, 

And  with  hearts  by  passion  wasted, 
Wrote  thy  pages. 

Thou  recallest  homes 
Where  thy  songs  of  love  and  friend- 
ship 

Made  the  gloomy  Northern  winter 
Bright  as  summer. 

Once  some  ancient  Scald,  . 

In  his  bleak,  ancestral  Iceland, 

Chanted  staves  of  these  old  ballads 
To  the  Vikings. 

Once  in  Elsinore, 

At  the  court  of  old  King  Hamlet, 

Yorick  and  his  boon  companions 
Sang  these  ditties. 


Once  Prince  Frederick’s  Guard 
Sang  them  in  their  smoky  barracks  ; — ■ 
Suddenly  the  English  cannon 
Joined  the  chorus  ! 

Peasants  in  the  field, 

Sailors  on  the  roaring  ocean, 

Students,  tradesmen,  pale  mechanics, 
All  have  sung  them. 

Thou  hast  been  their  friend  ; 

They,-  alas  ! have  left  thee  friendless  l 
Yet  at  least  by  one  warm  fireside 
Art  thou  welcome. 

And,  as  swallows  build 
In  these  wide,  old-fashioned  chimneys. 
So  thy  twittering  songs  shall  nestle 
In  my  bosom,  — 

Quiet,  close,  and  warm, 

Sheltered  from  all  molestation, 

And  recalling  by  their  voices 
Youth  and  travel. 


WALTER  VON  DER  VOGELWEID. 

Vogelweid  the  Minnesinger, 

When  he  left  this  world  of  ours, 

Laid  his  body  in  the  cloister, 

Under  Wiirtzburg’s  minster  towers. 

And  he  gave  the  monks  his  treasures, 
Gave  them  all  with  this  behest  : 

They  should  feed  the  birds  at  noontide 
Daily  on  his  place  of  rest ; 

Saying,  “ From  these  wandering  mim 
strels 

I have  learned  the  art  of  song  ; 

Let  me  now  repay  the  lessons 

They  have  taught  so  well  and  long.” 

Thus  the  bard  of  love  departed  ; 

And,  fulfilling  his  desire, 

On  his  tomb  the  birds  were  feasted 
By  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Day  by  day,  o’er  tower  and  turret, 

In  foul  weather  and  in  fair, 

Day  by  day,  in  vaster  numbers, 

Flocked  the  poets  of  the  air. 

On  the  tree  whose  heavy  branches 
Overshadowed  all  the  place, 

On  the  pavement,  on  the  tombstone. 

On  the  poet’s  sculptured  face, 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 


89 


On  tlie  cross-bars  of  each  window, 

On  the  lintel  of  each  door, 

They  renewed  the  War  of  Wartburg, 
Which  the  bard  had  fought  before. 

There  they  sang  their  merry  carols, 

Sang  their  lauds  on  every  side  ; 

And  the  name  their  voices  uttered 
Was  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 

Till  at  length  the  portly  abbot 

Murmured,  “ Why  this  waste  of  food  ? 

Be  it  changed  to  loaves  henceforward 
For  our  fasting  brotherhood.” 

Then  in  vain  o’er  tower  and  turret, 

From  the  walls  and  woodland  nests, 

When  the  minster  bells  rang  noontide, 
Gathered  the  unwelcome  guests. 

Then  in  vain,  with  cries  discordant, 
Clamorous  round  the  Gothic  spire, 

Screamed  the  feathered  Minnesingers 
For  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Time  has  long  effaced  the  inscriptions 
On  the  cloister’s  funeral  stones, 

And  tradition  only  tells  us 
Where  repose  the  poet’s  bones. 

But  around  the  vast  cathedral, 

By  sweet  echoes  multiplied, 

Still  the  birds  repeat  the  legend, 

And  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 


DRINKING  SONG. 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  AN  ANTIQUE  PITCHER. 

Come,  old  friend  ! sit  dowTn  and  listen  ! 

F rom  the  pitcher,  placed  between  us, 
How  the  waters  laugh  and  glisten 
In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 

Old  Silenus,  bloated,  drunken, 

Led  by  his  inebriate  Satyrs  ; 

On  his  breast  his  head  is  sunken, 
Vacantly  he  leers  and  chatters. 

Fauns  with  youthful  Bacchus  follow  ; 

Ivy  crowns  that  brow  supernal 
As  the  forehead  of  Apollo, 

And  possessing  youth  eternal. 

Round  about  him,  fair  Bacchantes, 
Bearing  cymbals,  flutes,  and  thyrses, 


Wild  from  Naxian  groves,  or  Zante’s 
Vineyards,  sing  delirious  verses. 

Thus  he  won,  through  all  the  nations, 
Bloodless  victories,  and  the  farmer 

Bore,  as  trophies  and  oblations, 

Vines  for  banners,  ploughs  for  armor, 

Judged  by  no  o’erzealous  rigor, 

Much  this  mystic  throng  expresses  : 

Bacchus  was  the  type  of  vigor. 

And  Silenus  of  excesses. 

These  are  ancient  ethnic  revels. 

Of  a faith  long  since  forsaken  ; 

Now  the  Satyrs,  changed  to  devils, 
Frighten  mortals  wine-o’ertaken. 

Now  to  rivulets  from  the  mountains 
Point  the  rods  of  fortune-tellers  ; 

Youth  perpetual  dwells  in  fountains, — 
Not  in  flasks,  and  casks,  and  cellars. 

Claudius,  though  he  sang  of  flagons 
And  huge  tankards  filled  with  Rhenish, 

From  that  fiery  blood  of  dragons 
Never  would  his  own  replenish. 

Even  Redi,  though  he  chaunted 
Bacchus  in  the  Tuscan  valleys, 

Never  drank  the  wine  he  vaunted 
In  his  dithyrambic  sallies. 

Then  with  water  fill  the  pitcher 
Wreathed  about  with  classic  fables  ; 

Ne’er  Falernian  threw  a richer 
Light  upon  Lucullus’  tables. 

Come,  old  friend,  sit  down  and  listen  ! 
As  it  passes  thus  between  us, 

IIow  its  wavelets  laugh  and  glisten 
In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE 
STAIRS. 

L’eternite  est  une  pendule,  dont  le  balancier 
dit  et  redit  sans  cesse  ces  deux  mots  seulement. 
dans  le  silence  des  tombeaux  : “ Toujours: 

jamais  ! Jamais  ! toujours  ! ” 

Jacques  Bridaine. 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 
x\cross  its  antique  portico 
' Tall  poplar- trees  their  shadows  throw  ; 


90 


SONGS. 


And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all,  — 

44  Forever  — never  ! 

Never  — forever  ! ” 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 

And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 

Like  a monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 

With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass,  — 
4 4 F or  ever  — never  ! 

Never — forever  ! ” 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light  ; 

But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 

Distinct  as  a passing  footstep’s  fall, 

It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 

Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 

And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber- 
door,  — 

44  Forever  — never  ! 

Never — forever ! ” 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of 
birth, 

Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has 
stood, 

And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things 
saw, 

It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe,  — 
4 4 Forever  — never  ! 

Never  — forever  ! ” 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality  ; 

His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared  ; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board  ; 

But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 

That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased,  — 
44  Forever  — never  ! 

Never  — forever  ! ” 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 
There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming 
strayed  ; 

O precious  hours  ! 0 golden  prime, 

And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 


Even  as  a miser  counts  his  gold, 

Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told,  — 
44  Forever — never  ! 

Never  — forever  ! ” 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding 
night  ; 

There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 

The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow  ; 
And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — 
44  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  ! ” 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 

Some  are  married,  some  are  dead  ; 

And  when  I ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 

44  Ah  ! when  shall  they  all  meet  again  ? ” 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by, 

The  ancient  "timepiece  makes  reply,  — 

44  Forever  — never  ! 

Never  — forever  ! ” 

Never  here,  forever  there, 

Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 

And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear,  — - 
Forever  there,  but  never  here  ! 

The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly,  — 

4 4 Forever  — never  ! 

Never  — forever  ! ” 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 

I shot  an  arrow  into  the  air, 

It  fell  to  earth,  I knew  not  where  ; 

For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow^  it  in  its  flight. 

I breathed  a song  into  the  air, 

It  fell  to  earth,  I knew  not  where  ; 

For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song  ? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke  ; 

And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 

I found  again  in  the  heart  of  a friend. 


DANTE. 


91 


SONNETS. 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 

Lo  ! in  the  painted  oriel  of  the  West, 

Whose  panes  the  sunken  sun  incarna- 
dioes, 

Like  a fair  lady  at  her  casement,  shines 

The  evening  star,  the  star  of  love  and 
rest  ! 

And  then  anon  she  doth  herself  divest 

Of  all  her  radiant  garments,  and  re- 
clines 

Behind  the  sombre  screen  of  yonder 
pines, 

With  slumber  and  soft  dreams  of  love 
oppressed. 

0 my  beloved,  my  sweet  Hesperus  ! 

My  morning  and  my  evening  star  of 
love  ! 

My  best  and  gentlest  lady  ! even  thus, 

As  that  fair  planet  in  the  sky  above, 

Dost  thou  retire  unto  thy  rest  at  night, 

And  from  thy  darkened  window  fades 
the  light. 

AUTUMN. 

Thou  comest,  Autumn,  heralded  by  the 
rain, 

With  banners,  by  great  gales  incessant 
fanned, 

Brighter  than  brightest  silks  of  Samar- 
cand, 

And  stately  oxen  harnessed  to  thy 
wain  ! 

Thou  standest,  like  imperial  Charle- 
magne, 

Upon  thy  bridge  of  gold  ; thy  royal 
hand 

Outstretched  with  benedictions  o’er 
the  land, 

Blessing  the  farms  through  all  thy 
vast  domain  ! 


Thy  shield  is  the  red  harvest  moon,  sus- 
pended 

So  long  beneath  the  heaven’s  o’er- 
hanging  eaves  ; 

Thy  steps  are  by  the  farmer’s  prayers 
attended  ; 

Like  flames  upon  an  altar  shine  the 
sheaves  ; 

And,  following  thee,  in  thy  ovation 
splendid, 

Thine  almoner,  the  wind,  scatters  the 
golden  leaves  ! 


DANTE. 

Tuscan,  that  wan  derest  through  the 
realms  of  gloom, 

With  thoughtful  pace,  and  sad,  ma- 
jestic eyes, 

Stern  thoughts  and  awful  from  thy 
soul  arise, 

Like  Farinata  from  his  fiery  tomb. 

Thy  sacred  song  is  like  the  trump  of 
doom  ; 

Yet  in  thy  heart  what  human  sympa- 
thies, 

What  soft  compassion  glows,  as  in 
the  skies 

The  tender  stars  their  clouded  lamps 
relume  ! 

Methinks  I see  thee  stand,  with  pallid 
cheeks, 

By  Fra  Hilario  in  his  diocese, 

As  up  the  convent-walls,  in  golden 
streaks, 

The  ascending  sunbeams  mark  the  day’s 
decrease  ; 

And,  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stran- 
ger seeks, 

Thy  voice  along  the  cloister  whispers, 
“ Peace ! ” 


92 


TRANSLATIONS. 


TRANSLATIONS, 


THE  HEMLOCK  TREE. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

0 hemlock  tree  ! 0 hemlock  tree  ! how 
faithful  are  thy  branches  ! 

Green  not  alone  in  summer  time, 
But  in  the  winter’s  frost  and  rime  ! 

0 hemlock  tree  ! 0 hemlock  tree  ! how 
faithful  are  thy  branches  ! 

0 maiden  fair  ! 0 maiden  fair  ! how 
faithless  is  thy  bosom  ! 

To  love  me  in  prosperity, 

And  leave  me  in  adversity  ! 

0 maiden  fair  ! 0 maiden  fair  ! how 
faithless  is  thy  bosom  ! 

The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou 
tak’st  for  thine  example  ! 

So  long  as  summer  laughs  she  sings, 
But  in  the  autumn  spreads  her 
wings. 

The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou 
tak’st  for  thine  example  ! 

The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook, 
is  mirror  of  thy  falsehood  ! 

It  flows  so  long  as  falls  the  rain, 

In  drought  its  springs  soon  dry 
again. 

The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook, 
is  mirror  of  thy  falsehood  ! 


ANNIE  OF  THARAW. 

FROM  THE  LOW  GERMAN  OF  SIMON  DACH. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  true  love  of  old, 

She  is  my  life,  and  my  goods,  and  my 
gold. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  her  heart  once  again 

To  me  has  surrendered  in  joy  and  in  pain. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  riches,  my  good, 

Thou,  0 my  soul,  my  flesh,  and  my 
blood  ! 

Then  come  the  wild  weather,  come  sleet 
or  come  snow, 

We  will  stand  by  each  other,  however 
it  blow. 


Oppression,  and  sickness,  and  sorrow, 
and  pain 

Shall  be  to  our  true  love  as  links  to  the 
chain. 

As  the  palm-tree  standeth  so  straight 
and  so  tall, 

The  more  the  hail  beats,  and  the  more 
the  rains  fall,  — 

So  love  in  our  hearts  shall  grow  mighty 
and  strong, 

Through  crosses,  through  sorrows, 
through  manifold  wrong. 

Shouldst  thou  be  torn  from  me  to  wander 
alone 

In  a desolate  land  where  the  sun  is  scarce 
known,  — 

Through  forests  I ’ll  follow,  and  where 
the  sea  flows, 

Through  ice,  and  through  iron,  through 
armies  of  foes. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  light  and  my  sun, 

The  threads  of  our  two  lives  are  woven 
in  one. 

What  e’er  I have  bidden  thee  thou  hast 
obeyed, 

Whatever  forbidden  thou  hast  not  gain- 
said. 

How  in  the  turmoil  of  life  can  love  stand, 

Where  there  is  not  one  heart,  and  one 
mouth,  and  one  hand  ? 

Some  seek  for  dissension,  and  trouble, 
and  strife  ; 

Like  a dog  and  a cat  live  such  man  and 
wife. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  such  is  not  our  love  ; 

Thou  art  my  lambkin,  my  chick,  and  my 
dove. 

Wliate’er  my  desire  is,  in  thine  may  be 
seen  ; 

I am  king  of  the  household,  and  thou 
art  its  queen. 


POETIC  APHORISMS. 


93 


It  is  this,  0 my  Annie,  my  heart’s 
sweetest  rest, 

That  makes  of  us  twain  but  one  soul  in 
one  breast. 

This  turns  to  a heaven  the  hut  where  we 
dwell  ; 

While  wrangling  soon  changes  a home 
to  a hell. 


THE  STATUE  OYER  THE  CATHE- 
DRAL DOOR. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  JULIUS  MOSEN. 

Forms  of  saints  and  kings  are  standing 
The  cathedral  door  above  ; 

Yet  I saw  but  one  among  them 

Who  hath  soothed  my  soul  with  love. 

In  his  mantle,  — - wound  about  him, 

As  their  robes  the  sowers  wind,  — 
Bore  he  swallows  and  their  fledglings, 
Flowers  and  weeds  of  every  kind. 

And  so  stands  he  calm  and  childlike, 
High  in  wind  and  tempest  wild  ; 

O,  were  I like  him  exalted, 

I would  be  like  him,  a child  ! 

And  my  songs,  — green  leaves  and 
blossoms,  — 

To  the  doors  of  heaven  would  bear, 
Calling  even  in  storm  and  tempest, 
Round  me  still  these  birds  of  air. 


THE  LEGEHD  OF  THE  CROSS- 
BILL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  JULIUS  MOSEN. 

On  the  cross  the  dying  Saviour 
Heavenward  lifts  his  eyelids  calm, 
Feels,  but  scarcely  feels,  a trembling 
In  his  pierced  and  bleeding  palm. 

And  by  all  the  world  forsaken, 

Sees  he  how  with  zealous  care 
At  the  ruthless  nail  of  iron 
A little  bird  is  striving  there. 

Stained  with  blood  and  never  tiring, 
With  its  beak  it  doth  not  cease, 

From  the  cross ’t  would  free  the  Saviour, 
Its  Creator’s  Son  release. 


And  the  Saviour  speaks  in  mildness  : 

‘ ‘ Blest  be  thou  of  all  the  good  ! 
Bear,  as  token  of  this  moment, 

Marks  of  blood  and  holy  rood  ! ” 

And  that  bird  is  called  the  crossbill ; 

Covered  all  with  blood  so  clear, 

In  the  groves  of  pine  it  singeth 

Songs,  like  legends,  strange  to  hear. 


THE  SEA  HATH  ITS  PEARLS. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  HEINRICH  HEINE. 

The  sea  hath  its  pearls, 

The  heaven  hath  its  stars  ; 

But  my  heart,  my  heart, 

My  heart  hath  its  love. 

Great  are  the  sea  and  the  heaven ; 

Yet  greater  is  my  heart, 

And  fairer  than  pearls  and  stars 
Flashes  and  beams  my  love. 

Thou  little,  youthful  maiden, 

Come  unto  my  great  heart  ; 

My  heart,  and  the  sea,  and  the  heaven 
Are  melting  away  with  love  ! 


POETIC  APHORISMS. 

FROM  THE  SINNGEDICHTE  OF  FRIEDRICH 
VON  LOGAU. 

SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 

MONEY. 

Whereunto  is  money  good  ? 

Who  has  it  not  wants  hardihood, 

Who  has  it  has  much  trouble  and  care, 
Who  once  has  had  it  has  despair. 

THE  BEST  MEDICINES. 

Joy  and  Temperance  and  Repose 
Slam  the  door  on  the  doctor’s  nose. 

SIN. 

Man-like  is  it  to  fall  into  sin, 
Fiend-like  is  it  to  dwell  therein, 
Christ-like  is  it  for  sin  to  grieve, 
God-like  is  it  all  sin  to  leave. 


94 


CURFEW. 


POVERTY  AND  BLINDNESS. 

A blind  man  is  a poor  man,  and  blind 
a poor  man  is  ; 

For  the  former  seeth  no  man,  and  the 
latter  no  man  sees. 

LAW  OF  LIFE. 

Live  I,  so  live  I, 

To  my  Lord  heartily, 

To  my  Prince  faithfully, 

To  my  Neighbor  honestly. 

Die  I,  so  die  I. 

CREEDS. 

Lutheran,  Popish,  Calvinistic,  all  these 
creeds  and  doctrines  three 

Extant  are  ; but  still  the  doubt  is,  where 
Christianity  may  be. 

THE  RESTLESS  HEART. 

A millstone  and  the  human  heart  are 
driven  ever  round  ; 

If  they  have  nothing  else  to  grind,  they 
must  themselves  be  ground. 

CHRISTIAN  LOVE. 

Whilom  Love  was  like  a fire,  and 
warmth  and  comfort  it  bespoke  ; 

But,  alas  ! it  now  is  quenched,  and  only 
bites  us,  like  the  smoke. 


ART  AND  TACT. 

Intelligence  and  courtesy  not  always 
are  combined  ; * 

Often  in  a wooden  house  a golden  room 
we  find. 


RETRIBUTION. 

Though  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly, 
yet  they  grind  exceeding  small ; 
Though  with  patience  he  stands  waiting, 
with  exactness  grinds  he  all. 


TRUTH. 

When  by  night  the  frogs  are  croaking, 
kindle  but  a torch’s  fire, 

Ha ! how  soon  they  all  are  silent ! Thus 
Truth  silences  the  liar. 


RHYMES. 

If  perhaps  these  rhymes  of  mine  should 
sound  not  well  in  strangers’  ears, 
They  have  only  to  bethink  them  that  it 
happens  so  with  theirs  ; 

For  so  long  as  words,  like  mortals,  call 
a fatherland  their  own, 

They  will  be  most  highly  valued  where 
they  are  best  and  longest  known. 


CURFEW. 


i. 

Solemnly,  mournfully, 
Dealing  its  dole. 

The  Curfew  Bell 
Is  beginning  to  toll. 

Cover  the  embers, 

And  put  out  the  light  ; 

Toil  comes  with  the  morning, 
And  rest  with  the  night. 

Dark  grow  the  windows, 

And  quenched  is  the  fire  ; 

Sound  fades  into  silence,  — 
All  footsteps  retire. 


No  voice  in  the  chambers, 

No  sound  in  the  hall ! 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all ! 

II. 

The  book  is  completed, 

And  closed,  like  the  day  ; 

And  the  hand  that  has  written  It 
Lays  it  away. 

Dim  grow  its  fancies  ; 

Forgotten  they  lie  ; 

Like  coals  in  the  ashes, 

They  darken  and  die. 


EVANGELINE. 


95 


Song  sinks  into  silence, 
The  story  is  told, 


Darker  and  darker 


The  black  shadows  fall ; 


The  windows  are  darkened, 
The  hearth-stone  is  cold. 


Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all. 


EVANGELINE 


A TALE  OF  ACADIE. 


This  is  the  forest  primeval.  The  murmuring  pines  and  the  hemlocks, 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green,  indistinct  in  the  twilight, 

Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,  with  voices  sad  and  prophetic, 

Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest  on  their  bosoms. 

Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns,  the  deep-voiced  neighboring  ocean 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail  of  the  forest. 

This  is  the  forest  primeval ; but  where  are  the  hearts  that  beneath  it 
Leaped  like  the  roe,  when  he  hears  in  the  woodland  the  voice  of  the  liunUaiair, 
Where  is  the  thatch-roofed  village,  the  home  of  Acadian  farmers,  — 

Men  whose  lives  glided  on  like  rivers  that  water  the  woodlands, 

Darkened  by  shadows  of  earth,  but  reflecting  an  image  of  heaven  ? 

Waste  are  those  pleasant  farms,  and  the  farmers  forever  departed  ! 

Scattered  like  dust  and  leaves,  when  the  mighty  blasts  of  October 
Seize  them,  and  whirl  them  aloft,  and  sprinkle  them  far  o’er  the  oceai« 

Naught  but  tradition  remains  of  the  beautiful  village  of  Grand-Pre. 

Ye  who  believe  in  affection  that  hopes,  and  endures,  and  is  patient, 

Ye  who  believe  in  the  beauty  and  strength  of  woman’s  devotion, 

List  to  the  mournful  tradition  still  sung  by  the  pines  of  the  forest ; 

List  to  a Tale  of  Love  in  Acadie,  home  of  the  happy. 


In  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the  Basin  of  Minas, 

Distant,  secluded,  still,  the  little  village  of  Grand-Pre 
Lay  in  the  fruitful  valley.  Vast  meadows  stretched  to  the  eastward, 
Giving  the  village  its  name,  and  pasture  to  flocks  without  number. 
Dikes,  that  the  hands  of  the  farmers  had  raised  with  labor  incessant, 
Shut  out  the  turbulent  tides  ; but  at  stated  seasons  the  flood-gates 
Opened,  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander  at  will  o’er  the  meadows. 

West  and  south  there  were  fields  of  flax,  and  orchards  and  cornfields 
Spreading  afar  and  unfenced  o’er  the  plain ; and  away  to  the  northward 
Blomidon  rose,  and  the  forests  old,  and  aloft  on  the  mountains 
Sea-fogs  pitched  their  tents,  and  mists  from  the  mighty  Atlantic 
Looked  on  the  happy  valley,  but  ne’er  from  their  station  descended 
There,  in  the  midst  of  its  farms,  reposed  the  Acadian  village. 

Strongly  built  were  the  houses,  with  frames  of  oak  and  of  hemlock, 


PART  THE  FIRST. 


I. 


96 


EVANGELINE. 


Snch  as  the  peasants  of  Normandy  built  in  the  reign  of  the  Henries. 

Thatched  were  the  roofs,  with  dormer-windows  ; and  gables  projecting 
Over  the  basement  below  protected  and  shaded  the  doorway. 

There  in  the  tranquil  evenings  of  summer,  when  brightly  the  sunset 
Lighted  the  village  street,  and  gilded  the  vanes  on  the  chimneys, 

Matrons  and  maidens  sat  in  snow-white  caps  and  in  kirtles 

Scarlet  and  blue  and  green,  with  distaffs  spinning  the  golden 

Flax  for  the  gossiping  looms,  whose  noisy  shuttles  within  doors 

Mingled  their  sound  with  the  whir  of  the  wheels  and  the  songs  of  the  maidens. 

Solemnly  down  the  street  came  the  parish  priest,  and  the  children 

Paused  in  their  play  to  kiss  the  hand  he  extended  to  bless  them. 

Reverend  walked  he  among  them  ; and  up  rose  matrons  and  maidens, 

Hailing  his  slow  approach  with  words  of  affectionate  welcome. 

Then  came  the  laborers  home  from  the  field,  and  serenely  the  sun  sank 
Down  to  his  rest,  and  twilight  prevailed.  Anon  from  the  belfry 
Softly  the  Angelus  sounded,  and  over  the  roofs  of  the  village 
Columns  of  pale  blue  smoke,  like  clouds  of  incense  ascending, 

Rose  from  a hundred  hearths,  the  homes  of  peace  and  contentment. 

Thus  dwelt  together  in  love  these  simple  Acadian  farmers,  — 

Dwelt  in  the  love  of  God  and  of  man.  Alike  were  they  free  from 
Fear,  that  reigns  with  the  tyrant,  and  envy,  the  vice  of  republics. 

Neither  locks  had  they  to  their  doors,  nor  bars  to  their  windows; 

But  their  dwellings  were  open  as  day  and  the  hearts  of  the  owners ; 

There  the  richest  was  poor,  and  the  poorest  lived  in  abundance. 

Somewhat  apart  from  the  village,  and  nearer  the  Basin  of  Minas, 

Benedict  Bellefontaine,  the  wealthiest  farmer  of  Grand-Pre, 

Dwelt  on  his  goodly  acres  ; and  with  him,  directing  his  household, 

Gentle  Evangeline  lived,  his  child,  and  the  pride  of  the  village. 

Stalworth  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man  of  seventy  winters  ; 

Hearty  and  hale  was  he,  an  oak  that  is  covered  with  snow-flakes ; 

White  as  the  snowr  were  his  locks,  aqd  his  cheeks  as  brown  as  the  oak -leaves. 
Fair  was  she  to  behold,  that  maiden  of  seventeen  summers. 

Black  were  her  eyes  as  the  berry  that  grows  on  the  thorn  by  the  wayside, 
Black,  yet  how  softly  they  gleamed  beneath  the  brown  shade  of  her  tresses  ! 
Sweet  was  her  breath  as  the  breath  of  kine  that  feed  in  the  meadows. 

When  in  the  harvest  heat  she  bore  to  the  reapers  at  noontide 
Flagons  of  home-brewed  ale,  ah  ! fair  in  sooth  was  the  maiden. 

Fairer  was  she  w7hen,  on  Sunday  morn,  while  the  bell  from  its  turret 
Sprinkled  with  holy  sounds  the  air,  as  the  priest  with  his  hyssop 
Sprinkles  the  congregation,  and  scatters  blessings  upon  them, 

Down  the  long  street  she  passed,  with  her  chaplet  of  beads  and  her  missal, 
Wearing  her  Norman  cap,  arid  her  kirtle  of  blue,  and  the  ear-rings, 

Brought  in  the  olden  time  from  France,  and  since,  as  an  heirloom, 

Handed  down  from  mother  to  child,  through  long  generations. 

But  a celestial  brightness  — a more  ethereal  beauty  — 

Shone  on  her  face  and  encircled  her  form,  when,  after  confession, 

Homeward  serenely  she  walked  with  God’s  benediction  upon  her.. 

When  she  had  passed,  it  seemed  like  the  ceasing  of  exquisite  music. 

Firmly  builded  with  rafters  of  oak,  the  house  of  the  farmer 
Stood  on  the  side  of  a hill  commanding  the  sea  ; and  a shady 
Sycamore  grew  by  the  door,  with  a woodbine  wreathing  around  it. 

Rudely  carved  was  the  porch,  with  seats  beneath  ; and  a footpath 
Led  through  an  orchard  wide,  and  disappeared  in  the  meadow. 

Under  the  sycamore-tree  were  hives  overhung  by  a penthouse, 

Such  as  the  traveller  sees  in  regions  remote  by  the  roadside, 


EVANGELINE. 


97 


Built  o’er  a box  for  the  poor,  or  the  blessed  image  of  Mary. 

Farther  down,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  was  the  well  with  its  moss-grown 
Bucket,  fastened  with  iron,  and  near  it  a trough  for  the  horses. 

Shielding  the  house  from  storms,  on  the  north,  were  the  barns  and  the  farm-yard, 
There  stood  the  broad-wheeled  wains  and  the  antique  ploughs  and  the  harrows  ; 
There  were  the  folds  for  the  sheep  ; and  there,  in  his  feathered  seraglio. 

Strutted  the  lordly  turkey,  and  crowed  the  cock,  with  the  selfsame 
Voice  that  in  ages  of  old  had  startled  the  penitent  Peter. 

Bursting  with  hay  were  the  barns,  themselves  a village.  In  each  one 
Far  o’erthe  gable  projected  a roof  of  thatch  ; and  a staircase, 

Under  the  sheltering  eaves,  led  up  to  the  odorous  corn-loft. 

There  too  the  dove-cot  stood,  with  its  meek  and  innocent  inmates 
Murmuring  ever  of  love  ; while  above  in  the  variant  breezes 
Numberless  noisy  weathercocks  rattled  and  sang  of  mutation. 

Thus,  at  peace  with  God  and  the  world,  the  farmer  of  Grand-Pre 
Lived  on  his  sunny  farm,  and  Evangeline  governed  his  household. 

Many  a youth,  as  he  knelt  in  the  church  and  opened  his  missal, 

Fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  as  the  saint  of  his  deepest  devotion  ; 

Happy  was  he  who  might  touch  her  hand  or  the  hem  of  her  garment  ! 

Many  a suitor  came  to  her  door,  by  the  darkness  befriended, 

And,  as  he  knocked  and  waited  to  hear  the  sound  of  her  footsteps, 

Knew  not  which  beat  the  louder,  his  heart  or  the  knocker  of  iron  ; 

Or  at  the  joyous  feast  of  the  Patron  Saint  of  the  village, 

Bolder  grew,  and  pressed  her  hand  in  the  dance  as  he  whispered 
Hurried  words  of  love,  that  seemed  a part  of  the  music. 

But,  among  all  who  came,  young  Gabriel  only  was  welcome  ; 

Gabriel  Lajeunesse,  the  son  of  Basil  the  blacksmith, 

Who  was  a mighty  man  in  the  village,  and  honored  of  all  men  ; 

For,  since  the  birth  of  time,  throughout  all  ages  and  nations, 

Has  the  craft  of  the  smith  been  held  in  repute  by  the  people. 

Basil  was  Benedict’s  friend.  Their  children  from  earliest  childhood 
Grew  up  together  as  brother  and  sister  ; and  Father  Felician, 

Priest  and  pedagogue  both  in  the  village, had  taught  them  their  letters 
Out  of  the  selfsame  book,  with  the  hymns  of  the  church  and  the  plain-song. 

But  when  the  hymn  was  sung,  and  the  daily  lesson  completed, 

Swiftly  they  hurried  away  to  the  forge  of  Basil  the  blacksmith. 

There  at  the  door  they  stood,  with  wondering  eyes  to  behold  him 
Take  in  his  leathern  lap  the  hoof  of  the  horse  as  a plaything, 

Nailing  the  shoe  in  its  place  ; while  near  him  the  tire  of  the  cart-wheel 
Lay  like  a fiery  snake,  coiled  round  in  a circle  of  cinders. 

Oft  on  autumnal  eves,  when  without  in  the  gathering  darkness 
Bursting  with  light  seemed  the  smithy,  through  every  cranny  and  crevice, 

Warm  by  the  forge  within  they  watched  the  laboring  bellows, 

And  as  its  panting  ceased,  and  the  sparks  expired  in  the  ashes, 

Merrily  laughed,  and  said  they  were  nuns  going  into  the  chapel. 

Oft  on  sledges  in  winter,  as  swift  as  the  swoop  of  the  eagle, 

Down  the  hillside  bounding,  they  glided  away  o’er  the  meadow. 

Oft  in  the  barns  they  climbed  to  the  populous  nests  on  the  rafters, 

Seeking  with  eager  eyes  that  wondrous  stone,  which  the  swallow 
Brings  from  the  shore  of  the  sea  to  restore  the  sight  of  its  fledglings  ; 

Lucky  was  he  who  found  that  stone  in  the  nest  of  the  swallow  ! 

Thus  passed  a few  swP't  years,  and  they  no' longer  were  children. 

He  was  a valiant  youth,  and  his  face,  like  the  face  of  the  morning, 

Gladdened  the  earth  with  its  light,  and  ripened  thought  into  action. 

She  was  a woman  now,  with  the  heart  and  hopes  of  a woman. 

“ Sunshine  of  Saint  Eulalie  ” was  she  called  ; for  that  was  the  sunshine 

7 


98 


EVANGELINE. 


Which,  as  the  farmers  believed,  would  load  their  orchards  with  apples  ; 
She,  too,  would  bring  to  her  husband’s  house  delight  and  abundance, 
Filling  it  full  of  love  and  the  ruddy  faces  of  children. 


II. 

N o w had  the  season  returned,  when  the  nights  grow  colder  and  longer, 

And  the  retreating  sun  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion  enters. 

Birds  of  passage  sailed  through  the  leaden  air,  from  the  ice-bound, 

Desolate  northern  bays  to  the  shores  of  tropical  islands. 

Harvests  were  gathered  in  ; and  wild  with  the  winds  of  September 
Wrestled  the  trees  of  the  forest,  as  Jacob  of  old  with  the  angel. 

All  the  signs  foretold  a winter  long  and  inclement. 

Bees,  with  prophetic  instinct  of  want,  had  hoarded  their  honey 
Till  the  hives  overflowed  ; and  the  Indian  hunters  asserted 
Cold  would  the  winter  be,  for  thick  was  the  fur  of  the  foxes. 

Such  was  the  advent  of  autumn.  Then  followed  that  beautiful  season, 

Called  by  the  pious  Acadian  peasants  the  Summer  of  All-Saints  ! 

Filled  was  the  air  with  a dreamy  and  magical  light  ; and  the  landscape 
Lay  as  if  new-created  in  all  the  freshness  of  childhood. 

Peace  seemed  to  reign  upon  earth,  and  the  restless  heart  of  the  ocean 
Was  for  a moment  consoled.  All  sounds  were  in  harmony  blended. 

Y oices  of  children  at  play,  the  crowing  of  cocks  in  the  farm-yards, 

Whir  of  wings  in  the  drowsy  air,  and  the  cooing  of  pigeons, 

All  were  subdued  and  low  as  the  murmurs  of  love,  and  the  great  sun 
Looked  with  the  eye  of  love  through  the  golden  vapors  around  him  ; 

While  arrayed  in  its  robes  of  russet  and  scarlet  and  yellow, 

Bright  with  the  sheen  of  the  dew,  each  glittering  tree  of  the  forest 
Flashed  like  the  plane-tree  the  Persian  adorned  with  mantles  and  jewels. 

How  recommenced  the  reign  of  rest  and  affection  and  stillness. 

Day  with  its  burden  and  heat  had  departed,  and  twilight  descending 
Brought  back  the  evening  star  to  the  sky,  and  the  herds  to  the  homestead. 
Pawing  the  ground  they  came,  and  resting  their  necks  on  each  other, 

And  with  their  nostrils  distended  inhaling  the  freshness  of  evening. 

Foremost,  bearing  the  bell,  Evangeline’s  beautiful  heifer, 

Proud  of  her  snow-white  hide,  and  the  ribbon  that  waved  from  her  collar, 
Quietly  paced  and  slow,  as  if  conscious  of  human  affection. 

Then  came  the  shepherd  back  with  his  bleating  flocks  from  the  seaside, 

Where  was  their  favorite  pasture.  Behind  them  followed  the  watch-dog, 
Patient,  full  of  importance,  and  grand  in  the  pride  of  his  instinct, 

Walking  from  side  to  side  with  a lordly  air,  and  superbly 
Waving  his  bushy  tail,  and  urging  forward  the  stragglers  ; 

Regent  of  flocks  was  he  when  the  shepherd  slept ; their  protector, 

When  from  the  forest  at  night,  through  the  starry  silence,  the  wolves  howled. 
Late,  with  the  rising  moon,  returned  the  wains  from  the  marshes, 

Laden  with  briny  hay,  that  filled  the  air  with  its  odor. 

Cheerily  neighed  the  steeds,  with  dew  on  their  manes  and  their  fetlocks, 
While  aloft  on  their  shoulders  the  wooden  and  ponderous  saddles^- 
Painted  with  brilliant  dyes,  and  adorned  with  tassels  of  crimson, 

Nodded  in  bright  array,  like  hollyhocks  heavy  with  blossoms. 

Patiently  stood  the  cows  meanwhile,  and  yielded  their  udders 
Unto  the  milkmaid’s  hand  ; whilst  loud  and  in  regular* cadence 
Into  the  sounding  pails  the  foaming  streamlets  descended. 

Lowing  of  cattle  and  peals  of  laughter  were  heard  in  the  farm-yard, 

Echoed  back  by  the  barns.  Anon  they  sank  into  stillness  ; 


EVANGELINE. 


99 


Heavily  closed,  with  a jarring  sound,  the  valves  of  the  barn-doors, 

Rattled  the  wooden  bars,  and  all  for  a season  was  silent. 

In-doors,  warm  by  the  wide-mouthed  fireplace,  idly  the  farmer 
Sat  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  watched  how  the  flames  and  the  smoke-wreaths 
Struggled  together  like  foes  in  a burning  city.  Behind  him, 

Nodding  and  mocking  along  the  wall,  with  gestures  fantastic, 

Darted  his  own  huge  shadow,  and  vanished  away  into  darkness. 

Races,  clumsily  carved  in  oak,  on  the  back  of  his  arm-chair 
Laughed  in  the  flickering  light,  and  the  pewter  plates  on  the  dresser 
Caught  and  reflected  the  flame,  as  shields  of  armies  the  sunshine. 

Fragments  of  song  the  old  mail  sang,  and  carols  of  Christmas, 

Such  as  at  home,  in  the  olden  time,  his  fathers  before  him 
Sang  in  their  Norman  orchards  and  bright  Burgundian  vineyards. 

Close  at  her  father’s  side  was  the  gentle  Evangeline  seated, 

Spinning  flax  for  the  loom,  that  stood  in  the  corner  behind  her. 

Silent  awhile  were  its  treadles,  at  rest  was  its  diligent  shuttle, 

While  the  monotonous  drone  of  the  wheel,  like  the  drone  of  a bagpipe, 

Followed  the  old  man’s  song,  and  united  the  fragments  together. 

As  in  a church,  when  the  chant  of  the  choir  at  intervals  ceases, 

Footfalls  are  heard  in  the  aisles,  or  words  of  the  priest  at  the  altar, 

So,  in  each  pause  of  the  song,  with  measured  motion  the  clock  clicked. 

Thus  as  they  sat,  there  were  footsteps  heard,  and,  suddenly  lifted, 

Sounded  the  wooden  latch,  and  the  door  swung  back  on  its  hinges. 

Benedict  knew  by  the  hob-nailed  shoes  it  was  Basil  the  blacksmith, 

And  by  her  beating  heart  Evangeline  knew  who  was  with  him. 

“Welcome  ! ” the  farmer  exclaimed,  as  their  footsteps  paused  on  the  threshold, 
“ Welcome,  Basil,  my  friend  ! Come,  take  thy  place  on  the  settle 
Close  by  the  chimney-side,  which  is  always  empty  without  thee  ; 

Take  from  the  shelf  overhead  thy  pipe  and  the  box  of  tobacco  ; 

Never  so  much  thyself  art  thou  as  when  through  the  curling 
Smoke  of  the  pipe  or  the  forge  thy  friendly  and  jovial  face  gleams 
Round  and  red  as  the  harvest  moon  through  the  mist  of  the  marshes.” 

Then,  with  a smile  of  content,  thus  answered  Basil  the  blacksmith, 

Taking  with  easy  air  the  accustomed  seat  by  the  fireside  : — 

“ Benedict  Bellefontaine,  thou  hast  ever  thy  jest  and  tliy  ballad  ! 

Ever  in  eheerfullest  mood  art  thou,  when  others  are  filled  with 
Gloomy  forebodings  of  ill,  and  see  only  ruin  before  them. 

Happy  art  thou,  as  if  every  day  thou  hadst  picked  up  a horseshoe.” 

Pausing  a moment,  to  take  the  pipe  that  Evangeline  brought  him, 

And  with  a coal  from  the  embers  had  lighted,  he  slowly  continued  : — • 

“ Four  days  now  are  passed  since  the  English  ships  at  their  anchors 
Ride  in  the  Gaspereau’s  mouth,  with  their  cannon  pointed  against  us. 

What  their  design  may  be  is  unknown  ; but  all  are  commanded 
On  the  morrow  to  meet  in  the  church,  where  his  Majesty’s  mandate 
Will  be  proclaimed  as  law  in  the  land.  Alas  ! in  the  mean  time 
Many  surmises  of  evil  alarm  the  hearts  of  the  people.” 

Then  made  answer  the  farmer  : — “ Perhaps  some  friendlier  purpose 
Brings  these  ships  to  our  shores.  Perhaps  the  harvests  in  England 
By  untimely  rains  or  un timelier  heat  have  been  blighted, 

And  from  our  bursting  barns  they  would  feed  their  cattle  and  children.” 

“Not  so  thinketh  the  folk  in  the  village,”  said,  warmly,  the  blacksmith, 
Shaking  his  head,  as  in  doubt  ; then,  heaving  a sigh,  he  continued  : — 

“ Louisburg  is  not  forgotten,  nor  Beau  Sejour,  nor  Pprt  Royal. 

Many  already  have  fled  to  the  forest,  and  lurk  on  its  outskirts, 

Waiting  with  anxious  hearts  the  dubious  fate  of  to-morrow. 


100 


EVANGELINE. 


Arms  have  been  taken  from  us,  and  warlike  weapons  of  all  kinds  ; 

Nothing  is  left  hut  the  blacksmith’s  sledge  and  the  scythe  of  the  mower.” 

Then  with  a pleasant  smile  made  answer  the  jovial  farmer  : — 

“ Safer  are  we  unarmed,  in  the  midst  of  our  flocks  and  our.  cornfields, 

Safer  within  these  peaceful  dikes,  besieged  by  the  ocean, 

Than  our  fathers  in  forts,  besieged  by  the  enemy’s  cannon. 

Fear  no  evil,  my  friend,  and  to-night  may  no  shadow'  of  sorrow 
Fall  on  this  house  and  hearth  ; for  this  is  the  night  of  the  contract. 

Built  are  the  house  and  the  barn.  The  merry  lads  of  the  village 

Strongly  have  built  them  and  well ; and,  breaking  the  glebe  round  about  them, 

Filled  the  barn  with  hay,  and  the  house  with  food  for  a twelvemonth. 

Rene  Leblanc  will  be  here  anon,  with  his  papers  and  inkhorn. 

Shall  we  not  then  be  glad,  and  rejoice  in  the  joy  of  our  children  ?” 

As  apart  by  the  window  she  stood,  with  her  hand  in  her  lover’s, 

Blushing  Evangeline  heard  the  words  that  her  father  had  spoken, 

And,  as  they  died  on  his  lips,  the  worthy  notary  entered. 


III. 

Bent  like  a laboring  oar,  that  toils  in  the  surf  of  the  ocean, 

Bent,  but  not  broken,  by  age  wTas  the  form  of  the  notary  public  ; 

Shocks  of  yellow  hair,  like  the  silken  floss  of  the  maize,  hung 

Over  his  shoulders  ; his  forehead,  was  high  ; and  glasses  with  horn  bows 

Sat  astride  on  his  nose,  with  a look  of  wisdom  supernal. 

Father  o'  twenty  children  was  he,  and  more  than  a hundred 
Children’s  children  rode  on  his  knee,  and  heard  his  great  watch  tick. 

Four  long  years  in  the  times  of  the  war  had  he  languished  a captive. 
Suffering  much  in  an  old  French  fort  as  the  friend  of  the  English. 

Now,  though  warier  grown,  without  all  guile  or  suspicion, 

Ripe  in  wisdom  was  he,  but  patient,  and  simple,  and  childlike. 

He  was  beloved  by  all,  and  most  of  all  by  the  children  ; 

For  he  told  them  tales  of  the  Loup-garou  in  the  forest, 

And  of  the  goblin  that  came  in  the  night  to  water  the  horses, 

And  of  the  white  Letiche,  the  ghost  of  a child  who  unchristened 
Died,  and  was  doomed  to  haunt  unseen  the  chambers  of  children  ; 

And  how  on  Christmas  eve  the  oxen  talked  in  the  stable, 

And  how  the  fever  was  cured  by  a spider  shut  up  in  a nutshell, 

And  of  the  marvellous  powers  of  four-leaved  clover  and  horseshoes, 

With  whatsoever  else  was  writ  in  the  lore  of  the  village. 

Then  up  rose  from  his  seat  by  the  fireside  Basil  the  blacksmith, 

Knocked  from  his  pipe  the  ashes,  and  slowly  extending  his  right  hand, 

“ Father  Leblanc,”  he  exclaimed,  “thou  hast  heard  the  talk  in  the  village, 
And,  perchance,  canst  tell  us  some  news  of  these  ships  and  their  errand.” 
Then  wdth  modest  demeanor  made  answer  the  notary  public,  — 

“ Gossip  enough  have  I heard,  in  sooth,  yet  am  never  the  wiser ; 

And  what  their  errand  may  be  I know  not  better  than  others. 

Yet  am  I not  of  those  wdio  imagine  some  evil  intention 

Brings  them  here,  for  we  are  at  peace  ; and  why  then  molest  us  ?” 

“ God’s  name  ! ” shouted  the  hasty  and  somewhat  irascible  blacksmith  ; 
“Must  we  in  all  things  look  for  the  how,  and  the  why,  and  the  wherefore  ? 
Daily  injustice  is  done,  and  might  is  the  right  of  the  strongest  ! ” 

But,  without  heeding  his  warmth,  continued  the  notary  public,  — - 

“Man  is  unjust,  but  God  is  just  ; and  finally  justice 

Triumphs  ; and  well  I remember  a story,  that  often  consoled  me, 

When  as  a captive  I lay  in  the  old  French  fort  at  Port  Ro3^al.” 

This  was  the  old  man’s  favorite  tale,  and  he  loved  to  repeat  it 


EVANGELINE. 


101 


When  his  neighbors  complained  that  any  injustice  was  done  them. 

“ Once  in  an  ancient  city,  whose  name  I no  longer  remember, 

Raised  aloft  on  a column,  a brazen  statue  of  Justice 

Stood  in  the  public  square,  upholding  the  scales  in  its  left  hand, 

And  in  its  right  a sword,  as  an  emblem  that  justice  presided 
Over  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  the  hearts  and  homes  of  the  people. 

Even  the  birds  had  built  their  nests  in  the  scales  of  the  balance, 

Having  no  fear  of  the  sword  that  Hashed  in  the  sunshine  above  them. 

But  in  the  course  of  time  the  laws  of  the  land  were  corrupted  ; 

Might  took  the  place  of  right,  and  the  weak  were  oppressed,  and  the  mighty 
Ruled  with  an  iron  rod.  Then  it  chanced  in  a nobleman’s  palace 
That  a necklace  of  pearls  was  lost,  and  erelong  a suspicion 
Fell  on  an  orphan  girl  who  lived  as  maid  in  the  household. 

She,  after  form  of  trial  condemned  to  die  on  the  scaffold,. 

Patiently  met  her  doom  at  the  foot  of  the  statue  of  Justice. 

As  to  her  Father  in  heaven  her  innocent  spirit  ascended, 

Lo  ! o’er  the  city  a tempest  rose  ; and  the  bolts  of  the  thunder 
Smote  the  statue  of  bronze,  and  hurled  in  wrath  from  its  left  hand 
Down  on  the  pavement  below  the  clattering  scales  of  the  balance, 

And  in  the  hollow  thereof  was  found  the  nest  of  a magpie, 

Into  whose  clay-built  walls  the  necklace  of  pearls  was  inwoven.” 

Silenced,  but  not  convinced,  when  the  story  was  ended,  the  blacksmith 
Stood  like  a man  who  fain  would  speak,  but  findeth  no  language  ; 

All  his  thoughts  were  congealed  into  lines  on  liis  face,  as  the  vapors 
Freeze  in  fantastic  shapes  on  the  window -panes  in  the  winter. 

Then  Evangeline  lighted  the  brazen  lamp  on  the  table, 

Filled,  till  it  overflowed,  the  pewter  tankard  with  home-brewed 
Nut-brown  ale,  that  was  famed  for  its  strength  in  the  village  of  Grand-Pre  ; 
While  from  his  pocket  the  notary  drew  his  papers  and  inkliorn, 

Wrote  with  a steady  hand  the  date  and  the  age  of  the  parties, 

Naming  the  dower  of  the  bride  in  flocks  of  sheep  and  in  cattle. 

Orderly  all  things  proceeded,  and  duly  and  well  were  completed, 

And  the  great  seal  of  the  law  was  set  like  a sun  on  the  margin. 

Then  from  his  leathern  pouch  the  farmer  threw  on  the  table 
Three  times  the  old  man’s  fee  in  solid  pieces  of  silver  ; 

And  the  notary  rising,  and  blessing  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom, 

Lifted  aloft  the  tankard  of  ale  and  drank  to  their  welfare. 

Wiping  the  foam  from  his  lip,  he  solemnly  bowed  and  departed, 

While  in  silence  the  others  sat  and  mused  by  the  fireside, 

Till  Evangeline  brought  the  draught-board  out  of  its  corner. 

Soon  was  the  game  begun.  In  friendly  contention  the  old  men 
Laughed  at  each  lucky  hit,  or  unsuccessful  manoeuvre, 

Laughed  when  a man  was  crowned,  or  a breach  was  made  in  the  king-row. 
Meanwhile  apart,  in  the  twilight  gloom  of  a window’s  embrasure, 

Sat  the  lovers,  and  whispered  together,  beholding  the  moon  rise 
Over  the  pallid  sea  and  the  silvery  mist  of  the  meadows. 

Silently  one  by  one,  in  the  infinite  meadows  of  heaven, 

Blossomed  the  lovely  stars,  the  forget-me-nots  of  the  angels. 

Thus  was  the  evening  passed.  Anon  the  bell  from  the  belfry 
Rang  out  the  hour  of  nine,  the  village  curfew,  and  straightway 
Rose  the  guests  and  departed  ; and  silence  reigned  in  the  household. 

Many  a farewell  word  and  sweet  good-night  on  the  door-step 
Lingered  long  in  Evangeline’s  heart,  and  filled  it  with  gladness. 

Carefully  then  were  covered  the  embers  that  glowed  on  the  hearth-stone, 
And  on  the  oaken  stairs  resounded  the  tread  of  the  farmer. 


102 


EVANGELINE. 


Soon  with  a soundless  step  the  foot  of  Evangeline  followed. 

Up  the  staircase  moved  a luminous  space  in  the  darkness, 

Lighted  less  by  the  lamp  than  the  shining  face  of  the  maiden. 

Silent  she  passed  the  hall,  and  entered  the  door  of  her  chamber. 

Simple  that  chamber  was,  with  its  curtains  of  white,  and  its  clothes-press 
Ample  and  high,  on  whose  spacious  shelves  were  carefully  folded 
Linen  and  woollen  stuffs,  by  the  hand  of  Evangeline  woven. 

This  was  the  precious  dower  she  would  bring  to  her  husband  in  marriage, 

Better  than  flocks  and  herds,  being  proofs  of  her  skill  as  a housewife. 

Soon  she  extinguished  her  lamp,  for  the  mellow  and  radiant  moonlight 
Streamed  through  the  windows,  and  lighted  the  room,  till  the  heart °of  the  maiden 
Swelled  and  obeyed  its  power,  like  the  tremulous  tides  of  the  ocean. 

Ah  ! she  was  fair,  exceeding  fair  to  behold,  as  she  stood  with 
Naked  snow-white  feet  on  the  gleaming  floor  of  her  chamber  ! 

Little  she  dreamed  that  below,  among  the  trees  of  the  orchard, 

Waited  her  lover  and  watched  for  the  gleam  of  her  lamp  and  her  shadow. 

Yet  were  her  thoughts  of  him,  and  at  times  a feeling  of  sadness 
Passed  o'er  her  soul,  as  the  sailing  shade  of  clouds  in  the  moonlight 
Flitted  across  the  floor  and  darkened  the  room  for  a moment. 

And,  as  she  gazed  from  the  window,  she  saw  serenely  the  moon  pass 
Forth  from  the  folds  of  a cloud,  and  one  star  follow  her  footsteps, 

As  out  of  Abraham’s  tent  young  Ishmael  wandered  with  Hagar  ! 


IV. 

Pleasantly  rose  next  morn  the  sun  on  the  village  of  Grand-Pre. 

Pleasantly  gleamed  in  the  soft,  sweet  air  the  Basin  of  Minas, 

Where  the  ships,  with  their  wavering  shadows,  were  riding  at  anchor. 

Life  had  long  been  astir  in  the  village,  and  clamorous  labor 
Knocked  with  its  hundred  hands  at  the  golden  gates  of  the  morning. 

Now  from  the  country  around,  from  the  farms  and  neighboring  hamlets, 
Came  in  their  holiday  dresses  the  blithe  Acadian  peasants. 

Many  a glad  good-morrow  and  jocund  laugh  from  the  young  folk 
Made  the  bright  air  brighter,  as  up  from  the  numerous  meadows, 

Where  no  path  could  be  seen  but  the  track  of  wheels  in  the  greensward, 
Group  after  group  appeared,  and  joined,  or  passed  on  the  highway. 

Long  ere  noon,  in  the  village  all  sounds  of  labor  were  silenced. 

Thronged  were  the  streets  with  people  ; and  noisy  groups  at  the  house-doors 
Sat  in  the  cheerful  sun,  and  rejoiced  and  gossiped  together. 

Every  house  was  an  inn,  where  all  were  welcomed  and  feasted  ; 

F or  with  this  simple  people,  who  lived  like  brothers  together, 

All  things  were  held  in  common,  and  what  one  had  was  another’s. 

Yet  under  Benedict’s  roof  hospitality  seemed  more  abundant  : 

For  Evangeline  stood  among  the  guests  of  her  father  ; 

Bright  was  her  face  with  smiles,  and  words  of  welcome  and  gladness 
Fell  from  her  beautiful  lips,  and  blessed  the  cup  as  she  gave  it. 

Under  the  open  sky,  in  the  odorous  air  of  the  orchard, 

Stript  of  its  golden  fruit,  was  spread  the  feast  of  betrothal. 

There  in  the  shade  of  the  porch  were  the  priest  and  the  notary  seated  ; 

There  good  Benedict  sat,  and  sturdy  Basil  the  blacksmith. 

Not  far  withdrawn  from  these,  by  the  cider-press  and  the  beehives, 

Michael  the  fiddler  was  placed,  with  the  gayest  of  hearts  and  of  waistcoats. 
Shadow  and  light  from  the  leaves  alternately  played  on  his  snow-white 
Hair,  as  it  waved  in  the  wind  ; and  the  jolly  face  of  the  fiddler 


EVANGELINE. 


Glowed  like  a living  coal  when  the  ashes  are  blown  from  the  embers. 

Gayly  the  old  man  sang  to  the  vibrant  sound  of  his  fiddle, 

Tons  les  Bourgeois  de  Chartres , and  Le  Carillon  de  Dunkerque , 

And  anon  with  his  wooden  shoes  beat  time  to  the  music. 

Merrily,  merrily  whirled  the  wheels  of  the  dizzying  dances 
Under  the  orchard-trees  and  down  the  path  to  the  *meadows  ; 

Old  folk  and  young  together,  and  children  mingled  among  them. 

Fairest  of  all  the  maids  was  Evangeline,  Benedict’s  daughter  ! 

Noblest  of  all  the  youths  was  Gabriel,  son  of  the  blacksmith  ! 

So  passed  the  morning  away.  And  lo  ! with  a summons  sonorous 
Sounded  the  bell  from  its  tower,  and  over  the  meadow's  a drum  beat. 
Thronged  erelong  was  the  church  with  men.  Without,  in  the  churchyard, 
Waited  the  women.  They  stood  by  the  graves,  and  hung  on  the  headstones 
Garlands  of  autumn-leaves  and  evergreens  fresh  from  the  forest. 

Then  came  the  guard  from  the  ships,  and  marching  proudly  among  them 
Entered  the  sacred  portal.  With  loud  and  dissonant  clangor 
Echoed  the  sound  of  their  brazen  drums  from  ceiling  and  casement,  — 
Echoed  a moment  only,  and  slowly  the  ponderous  portal 
Closed,  and  in  silence  the  crowd  awaited  the  wall  of  the  soldiers. 

Then  uprose  their  commander,  and  spake  from  the  steps  of  the  altar, 
Holding  aloft  in  his  hands,  with  its  seals,  the  royal  commission. 

“ You  are  convened  this  day,”  he  said,  “ by  his  Majesty’s  orders. 

Clement  and  kind  has  he  been  ; but  how  you  have  answered  his  kindness, 
Let  your  own  hearts  reply  ! To  my  natural  make  and  my  temper 
Painful  the  task  is  I do,  which  to  you  I know  must  be  grievous. 

Yet  must  I bow  and  obey,  and  deliver  the  will  of  our  monarch ; 

Namely,  that  all  your  lauds,  and  dwellings,  and  cattle  of  all  kinds 
Forfeited  be  to  the  crown  ; and  that  you  yourselves  from  this  province 
Be  transported  to  other  lands.  God  grant  you  may  dwell  there 
Ever  as  faithful  subjects,  a happy  and  peaceable  people  ! 

Prisoners  now  I declare  you  ; for  such  is  his  Majesty’s  pleasure  !” 

As,  when  the  air  is  serene  in  the  sultry  solstice  of  summer, 

Suddenly  gathers  a storm,  and  the  deadly  sling  of  the  hailstones 
Beats  down  the  farmer’s  corn  in  the  field  and  shatters  his  windows, 

Hiding  the  sun,  and  strewing  the  ground  with  thatch  from  the  house-roofs, 
Bellowing  fly  the  herds,  and  seek  to  break  their  enclosures  ; 

So  on  the  hearts  of  the  people  descended  the  words  of  the  speaker. 

Silent  a moment  they  stood  in  speechless  wonder,  and  then  rose 
Louder  and  ever  louder  a wail  of  sorrow  and  anger, 

And,  by  one  impulse  moved,  they  madly  rushed  to  the  door-way. 

Vain  was  the  hope  of  escape  | and  cries  and  fierce  imprecations 

Raqg  through  the  house  of  prayer ; and  high  o’er  the  heads  of  the  others 

Rose,  with  his  arms  uplifted,  the  figure  of  Basil  the  blacksmith, 

As,  on  a stormy  sea,  a spar  is  tossed  by  the  billows. 

Flushed  was  his  face  and  distorted  with  passion  ; and  wildly  he  shouted,  — 
“Down  with  the  tyrants  of  England  ! we  never  have  sworn  them  allegiance ! 
Death  to  these  foreign  soldiers,  who  .seize  on  our  homes  and  our  harvests ! ” 
More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  the  merciless  hand  of  a soldier 
Smote  him  upon  the  mouth,  and  dragged  him  down  to  the  pavement. 

In  the  midst  of  the  strife  and  tumult  of  angry  contention, 

Lo ! the  door  of  the  chancel  opened,  and  Father  Felician 
Entered,  with  serious  mien,  and  ascended  the  steps  of  the  altar. 

Raising  his  reverend  hand,  with  a gesture  he  awed  into  silence 
All  that  clamorous  throng ; and  thus  he  spake  to  his  people ; 

Deep  were  his  tones  and  solemn  ; in  accents  measured  and  mournful 


104 


EVANGELINE. 


Spake  he,  as,  after  the  tocsin’s  alarum,  distinctly  the  clock  strikes. 

“ What  is  this  that  ye  do,  my  children  ? what  madness  has  seized  you  ? 

Forty  years  of  my  life  have  1 labored  among  you,  and  taught  you, 

Not  in  word  alone,  but  in  deed,  to  love  one  another  ! 

Is  this  the  fruit  of  my  toils,  of  my  vigils  and  prayers  and  privations  ? 

Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  all 'lessons  of  love  and  forgiveness? 

This  is  the  house  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  and  would  you  profane  it 
Thus  with  violent  deeds  and  hearts  overflowing  with  hatred  ? 

Lo ! where  the  crucified  Christ  from  his  cross  is  gazing  upon  you  ! 

See  ! in  those  sorrowful  eyes  what  meekness  and  holy  compassion  ! 

Hark  ! how  those  lips  still  repeat  the  prayer,  ‘ 0 Father,  forgive  them  !’ 

Let  us  repeat  that  prayer  in  the  hour  when  the  wicked  assail  us, 

Let  us  repeat  it  now,  and  say,  4 0 Father,  forgive  them  ! ’ ” 

Few  w'ere  his  words  of  rebuke,  but  deep  in  the  hearts  of  his  people 
Sank  they,  and  sobs  of  contrition  succeeded  the  passionate  outbreak, 

While  they  repeated  his  prayer,  and  said,  “ 0 Father,  forgive  them  ! ” 

Then  came  the  evening  service.  The  tapers  gleamed  from  the  altar. 
Fervent  and  deep  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  the  people  responded, 

Not  with  their  lips  alone,  but  their  hearts  ; and  the  Ave  Maria 

Sang  they,  and  fell  on  their  knees,  and  their  souls,  with  devotion  translated, 

Rose  on  the  ardor  of  prayer,  like  Elijah  ascending  to  heaven. 

Meanwhile  had  spread  in  the  village  the  tidings  of  ill,  and  on  all  sides 
Wandered,  wailing,  from  house  to  house  the  women  and  children. 

Long  at  her  father’s  door  Evangeline  stood,  with  her  right  hand 
Shielding  her  eyes  from  the  level  rays  of  the  sun,  that,  descending, 

Lighted  the  village  street  with  mysterious  splendor,  and  roofed  each 
Peasant’s  cottage  with  golden  thatch,  and  emblazoned  its  windows. 

Long  within  had  been  spread  the  snow-white  cloth  on  the  table  ; 

There  stood  the  wheaten  loaf,  and  the  honey  fragrant  with  wild-flowers  ; 
There  stood  the  tankard  of  ale,  and  the  cheese  fresh  brought  from  the  dairy ; 
And,  at  the  head  of  the  board,  the  great  arm-chair  of  the  farmer. 

Thus  did  Evangeline  wait  at  her  father’s  door,  as  the  sunset 
Threw  the  long  shadows  of  trees  o’er  the  broad  ambrosial  meadows. 

Ah  ! on  her  spirit  within  a deeper  shadow  had  fallen, 

And  from  the  flelds  of  her  soul  a fragrance  celestial  ascended,  — 

Charity,  meekness,  love,  and  hope,  and  forgiveness,  and  patience  ! 

Then,  all-forgetful  of  self,  she  wandered  into  the  village, 

Cheering  with  looks  and  words  the  mournful  hearts  of  the  women, 

As  o’er  the  darkening  fields  with  lingering  steps  they  departed, 

Urged  by  their  household  cares,  and  the  weary  feet  of  their  children. 

Down  sank  the  great  red  sun,  and  in  golden,  glimmering  vapors 
Veiled  the  light  of  his  face,  like  the  Prophet  descending  from  Sinai. 

Sweetly  over  the  village  the  bell  of  the  Angelus  sounded. 

Meanwhile,  amid  the  gloom,  by  the  church  Evangeline  lingered. 

All  was  silent  within  ; and  in  vain  at  the  door  and  the  windows 
Stood  she,  and  listened  and  looked,  till,  overcome  by  emotion, 

“ Gabriel  ! ” cried  she  aloud  with  tremulous  voice  ; but  no  answer  . 

Came  from  the  graves  of  the  dead,  nor  the  gloomier  grave  of  the  living. 
Slowlv  at  length  she  returned  to  the  tenantless  house  of  her  father. 
Smouldered  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  on  the  board  was  the  supper  untasted, 
Empty  and  drear  was  each  room,  and  haunted  with  phantoms  of  terror. 

Sadly  echoed  her  step  on  the  stair  and  the  floor  of  her  chamber. 

In  the  dead  of  the  night  she  heard  the  disconsolate  rain  fall 
Loud  on  the  withered  leaves  of  the  sycamore-tree  by  the  window. 


EVANGELINE. 


105 


Keenly  the  lightning  flashed  ; and  the  voice  of  the  echoing  thunder 
Told  her  that  God  was  in  heaven,  and  governed  the  world  he  created ! 
Then  she  remembered  the  tale  she  had  heard  of  the  justice  of  Heaven  ; 
Soothed  was  her  troubled  soul,  and  she  peacefully  slumbered  till  morning. 


Y. 

Four  times  the  sun  had  risen  and  set ; and  now  on  the  fifth  day 
Cheerily  called  the  cock  to  the  sleeping  maids  of  the  farm-house. 

Soon  o’er  the  yellow-  fields,  in  silent  and  mournful  procession, 

Came  from  the  neighboring  hamlets  and  farms  the  Acadian  women, 

Driving  in  ponderous  wains  their  household  goods  to  the  sea-shore. 

Pausing  and  looking  back  to  gaze  once  more  on  their  dwellings, 

Ere  they  were  shut  from  sight  by  the  winding  road  and  the  woodland. 

Close  at  their  sides  their  children  ran , and  urged  on  the  oxen, 

While  in  their  little  hands  they  clasped  some  fragments  of  playthings. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau’s  mouth  the)"  hurried  ; and  there  on  the  sea-beach 
Piled  in  confusion  lay  the  household  goods  of  the  peasants. 

All  day  long  between  the  shore  and  the  ships  did  the  boats  ply  ; 

All  day  long  the  wains  came  laboring  down  from  the  village. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  near  to  his  setting, 

Echoed  far  o’er  the  fields  came  the  roll  of  drums  from  the  churchyard. 

Thither  the  women  and  children  thronged.  On  a sudden  the  church-doors 
Opened,  and  forth  came  the  guard,  and  marching  in  gloomy  procession 
Followed  the  long-imprisoned,  but  patient,  Acadian  farmers. 

Even  as  pilgrims,  who  journey  afar  from  their  homes  and  their  country, 

Sing  as  they  go,  and  in  singing  forget  they  are  weary  and  wayworn, 

So  with  songs  on  their  lips  the  Acadian  peasants  descended 

Down  from  the  church  to  the  shore,  amid  their  wives  and  their  daughters. 

Foremost  the  young  men  came  ; and,  raising  together  their  voices, 

Sang  with  tremulous  lips  a chant  of  the  Catholic  Missions  : — 

“ Sacred  heart  of  the  Saviour  ! O inexhaustible  fountain  ! 

Fill  our  hearts  this  day  with  strength  and  submission  and  patience  ! ” 

Then  the  old  men,  as  they  marched,  and  the  women  that  stood  by  the  wayside 
Joined  in  the  sacred  psalm,  and  the  birds  in  the  sunshine  above  them 
Mingled  their  notes  therewith,  like  voices  of  spirits  departed. 

. Half-way  down  to  the  shore  Evangeline  waited  in  silence, 

Not  overcome  with  grief,  but  strong  in  the  hour  of  affliction, — 

Calmly  and  sadly  she  waited,  until  the  procession  approached  her, 

And  she  beheld  the  face  of  Gabriel  pale  with  emotion. 

Tears  then  filled  her  eyes,  and,  eagerly  running  to  meet  him, 

Clasped  she  his  hands,  and  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  whispered, — 

“ Gabiiel ! be  of  good  cheer  ! for  if  we  love  one  another 

Nothing,  in  truth,  can  harm  us,  whatever  mischances  may  happen  ! ” 

Smiling  she  spake  these  words  ; then  suddenly  paused,  for  her  father 
Saw  she  slowly  advancing.  Alas  ! how  changed  was  his  aspect ! 

Gone  was  the  glow  from  his  cheek,  and  the  fire  from  his  eye,  and  his  footstep 
Heavier  seemed  with  the  weight  of  the  heavy  heart  in  his  bosom. 

But  with  a smile  and  a sigh,  she  clasped  his  neck  and  embraced  him, 

Speaking  words  of  endearment  where  words  of  comfort  availed  not. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau’s  mouth  moved  on  that  mournful  procession. 

There  disorder  prevailed,  and  the  tumult  and  stir  of  embarking. 

Busily  plied  the  freighted  boats  ; and  in  the  confusion 


106 


EVANGELINE. 


Wives  were  torn  from  their  husbands,  and  mothers,  too  late,  saw  their  children 
Left  on  the  land,  extending  their  arms,  with  wildest  entreaties. 

So  unto  separate  ships  were  Basil  and  Gabriel  carried, 

While  in  despair  on  the  shore  Evangeline  stood  with  her  father. 

Half  the  task  was  not  done  when  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  twilight 
Deepened  and  darkened  around  ; and  in  haste  the  refluent  ocean 
Fled  away  from  the  shore,  and  left  the  line  of  the  sand-beach 
Covered  with  waifs  of  the  tide,  with  kelp  and  the  slippery  sea-weed. 

Farther  back  in  the  midst  of  the  household  goods  and  the  wagons, 

Like  to  a gypsy  camp,  or  a leaguer  after  a battle, 

All  escape  cut  oft*  by  the  sea,  and  the  sentinels  near  them, 

Lay  encamped  for  the  night  the  houseless  Acadian  farmers. 

Back  to  its  nethermost  caves  retreated  the  bellowing  ocean, 

Dragging  adown  the  beach  the  rattling  pebbles,  and  leaving 
Inland  and  far  up  the  shore  the  stranded  boats  of  the  sailors. 

Then,  as  the  night  descended,  the  herds  returned  from  their  pastures  ; 

Sweet  was  the  moist  still  air  with  the  odor  of  milk  from  their  udders  ; 

Lowing  they  waited,  and  long,  at  the  well-known  bars  of  the  farm-yard,  — 
Waited  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  voice  and  the  hand  of  the  milkmaid. 

Silence  reigned  in  the  streets  ; from  the  church  no  Angelus  sounded, 

Rose  no  smoke  from  the  roofs,  and  gleamed  no  lights  from  the  windows. 

But  on  the  shores  meanwhile  the  evening  fires  had  been  kindled, 

Built  of  the  drift-wood  thrown  on  the  sands  from  wrecks  in  the  tempest. 

Round  them  shapes  of  gloom  and  sorrowful  faces  were  gathered, 

Voices  of  women  were  heard,  and  of  men,  and  the  crying  of  children. 

Onward  from  fire  to  fire,  as  from  hearth  to  hearth  in  his  parish, 

Wandered  the  faithful  priest,  consoling  and  blessing  and  cheering, 

Like  unto  shipwrecked  Paul  on  Melita’s  desolate  sea-shore. 

Thus  he  approached  the  place  where  Evangeline  sat  with  her  father, 

And  in  the  flickering  light  beheld  the  face  of  the  old  man, 

Haggard  and  hollow  and  wan,  and  without  either  thought  or  emotion, 

E’en  as  the  face  of  a clock  from  which  the  hands  have  been  taken. 

Vainly  Evangeline  strove  with  words  and  caresses  to  cheer  him, 

Vainly  offered  him  food  ; yet  he  moved  not,  he  looked  not,  he  spake  not, 

But,  with  a vacant  stare,  ever  gazed  at  the  flickering  fire-light. 

4 ‘ Benedicite  ! ” murmured  the  priest,  in  tones  of  compassion. 

More  he  fain  wTould  have  said,  but  his  heart  was  full,  and  his  accents 
Faltered  and  paused  on  his  lips,  as  the  feet  of  a child  on  a threshold, 

Flushed  by  the  scene  he  beholds,  and  the  awful  presence  of  sorrow. 

Silently,  therefore,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  head  of  the  maiden, 

Raising  his  tearful  eyes  to  the  silent  stars  that  above  them 

Moved  on  their  way,  unperturbed  by  the  wrongs  and  sorrows  of  mortals. 

Then  sat  he  down  at  her  side,  and  they  wept  together  in  silence. 


Suddenly  rose  from  the  south  a light,  as  in  autumn  the  blood-red 
Moon  climbs  the  crystal  walls  of  heaven,  and  o’er  the  horizon 
Titan-like  stretches  its  hundred  hands  upon  mountain  and  meadow, 

Seizing  the  rocks  and  the  rivers,  and  piling  huge  shadows  together. 

Broader  and  ever  broader  it  gleamed  on  the  roofs  of  the  village, 

Gleamed  on  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  ships  that  lay  in  the  roadstead. 
Columns  of  shining  smoke  uprose,  and  flashes  of  flame  were 
Thrust  through  their  folds  and  withdrawn,  like  the  quivering  hands  of  a martyr. 
Then  as  the  wind  seized  the  gleeds  and  the  burning  thatch,  and,  uplifting, 
Whirled  them  aloft  through  the  air,  at  once  from  a hundred  house-tops 
Started  the  sheeted  smoke  with  flashes  of  flame  intermingled. 


EVANGELINE. 


107 


These  things  beheld  in  dismay  the  crowd  on  the  shore  and  on  shipboard. 
Speechless  at  first  they  stood,  then  cried  aloud  in  their  anguish,  , 

“We  shall  behold  no  more  our  homes  in  the  village  of  Grand- Pre  ! 

Loud  on  a sudden  the  cocks  began  to  crow  in  the  farm-yards, 

Thinking  the  day  had  dawned  ; and  anon  the  lowing  of  cattle 
Came  on°the  evening  breeze,  by  the  barking  of  dogs  interrupted. 

Then  rose  a sound  of  dread,  such  as  startles  the  sleeping  encampments 
Far  in  the  western  prairies  or  forests  that  skirt  the  Nebraska,  . 

When  the  wild  horses  affrighted  sweep  by  with  the  speed  of  the  whirlwind, 
Or  the  loud  bellowing  herds  of  buffaloes  rush  to  the  river. 

Such  was  the  sound  that  arose  on  the  night,  as  the  herds  and  the  horses 
Broke  through  their  folds  and  fences,  and  madly  rushed  o’er  the  meadows. 

Overwhelmed  with  the  sight,  yet  speechless,  the  priest  and  the  maiden 
Gazed  on  the  scene  of  terror  that  reddened  and  widened  before  them  ; 

And  as  they  turned  at  length  to  speak  to  their  silent  companion, 

Lo  ! from  liis  seat  he  had  fallen,  and  stretched  abroad  on  the  sea-shore 
Motionless  lay  his  form,  from  which  the  soul  had  departed. 

Slowly  the  priest  uplifted  the  lifeless  head,  and  the  maiden 
Knelt  at  her  father’s  side,  and  wrailed  aloud  in  her  terror. 

Then  in  a swoon  she  sank,  and  lay  with  her  head  on  his  bosom. 

Through  the  long  night  she  lay  in  deep,  oblivious  slumber  ; 

And  when  she  woke  from  the  trance,  she  beheld  a multitude  near  her. 
Faces  of  friends  she  beheld,  that  were  mournfully  gazing  upon  her, 

Pallid,  with  tearful  eyes,  and  looks  of  saddest  compassion. 

Still  the  blaze  of  the  burning  village  illumined  the  landscape, 

Reddened  the  sky  overhead,  and  gleamed  on  the  faces  around  her, 

And  like  the  day  of  doom  it  seemed  to  her  wavering  senses. 

Then  a familiar  voice  she  heard,  as  it  said  to  the  people,  — 

“ Let  us  bury  him  here  by  the  sea.  When  a happier  season 
Brings  us  again  to  our  homes  from  the  unknown  land  of  our  exile, 

Then  shall  his  sacred  dust  be  piously  laid  in  the  churchyard.” 

Such  were  the  words  of  the  priest.  And  there  in  haste  by  the  sea-side, 
Having  the  glare  of  the  burning  village  for  funeral  torches, 

But  without  bell  or  book,  they  buried  the  farmer  of  Grand- Pre. 

And  as  the  voice  of  the  priest  repeated  the  service  of  sorrow, 

Lo  ! with  a mournful  sound,  like  the  voice  of  a vast  congregation, 

Solemnly  answered  the  sea,  and  mingled  its  roar  with  the  dirges. 

T was  the  returning  tide,  that  afar  from  the  waste  of  the  ocean, 

With  the  first  dawn  of  the  day,  came  heaving  and  hurrying  landward. 

Then  recommenced  once  more  the  stir  and  noise  of  embarking  ; 

And  with  the  ebb  of  the  tide  the  ships  sailed  out  of  the  harbor, 

Leaving  behind  them  the  dead  on  the  shore,  and  the  village  in  ruins. 


PART  THE  SECOND. 

\ 

I. 

Many  a weary  year  had  passed  since  the  burning  of  Grand-Pre, 

When  on  the  falling  tide  the  freighted  vessels  departed, 

Bearing  a nation,  with  all  its  household  gods,  into  exile, 

Exile  without  an  end,  and  without  an  example  in  story. 

Far  asunder,  on  separate  coasts,  the  Acadians  landed  ; 

Scattered  were  they,  like  flakes  of  snow,  when  the  wind  from  the  northeast 
Strikes  aslant  through  the  fogs  that  darken  the  Banks  of  N ewfoundland. 


108 


EVANGELINE. 


Friendless,  homeless,  hopeless,  they  wandered  from  city  to  city. 

From  the  cold  lakes  of  the  North  to  sultry  Southern  savannas, — 

From  the  bleak  shores  of  the  sea  to  the  lands  where  the  Father  of  Waters 
Seizes  the  hills  in  his  hands,  and  drags  them  down  to  the  ocean, 

Deep  in  their  sands  to  bury  the  scattered  bones  of  the  mammoth. 

Friends  they  sought  and  homes  ; and  many,  despairing,  heart-broken, 
Asked  of  the  earth  but  a grave,  and  no  longer  a friend  nor  a fireside. 

Written  their  history  stands  on  tablets  of  stone  in  the  churchyards. 

Long  among  them  was  seen  a maiden  who  waited  and  wandered, 

Lowly  and  meek  in  spirit,  and  patiently  suffering  all  things. 

Fair  was  she  and  young  ; but,  alas  1 before  her  extended. 

Dreary  and  vast  and  silent,  the  desert  of  life,  with  its  pathway 
Marked  by  the  graves  of  those  who  had  sorrowed  and  suffered  before  her. 
Passions  long  extinguished,  and  hopes  long  dead  and  abandoned. 

As  the  emigrant’s  way  o'er  the  Western  desert  is  marked  by 
Camp-fires  long  consumed,  and  bones  that  bleach  in  the  sunshine. 
Something  there  was  in  her  life  incomplete,  imperfect,  unfinished  ; 

As  if  a morning  of  June,  with  all  its  music  and  sunshine, 

Suddenly  paused  in  the  sky,  and,  fading,  slowly  descended 
Into  the  east  again,  from  whence  it  late  had  arisen. 

Sometimes  she  lingered  in  towns,  till,  urged  ~by  the  fever  within  her. 

Urged  by  a restless  longing,  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  spirit, 

She  would  commence  again  her  endless  search  and  endeavor  ; 

Sometimes  in  churchyards  strayed,  and  gazed  on  the  crosses  and  tombstones. 
Sat  by  some  nameless  grave,  and  thought  that  perhaps  in  its  bosom 
He  was  already  at  rest,  and  she  longed  to  slumber  beside  him. 

Sometimes  a rumor,  a hearsay,  an  inarticulate  whisper, 

Came  with  its  airy  hand  to  point  and  beckon  her  forward* 

Sometimes  she  spake  with  those  who  had  seen  her  beloved  and  known  him. 
But  it  was  long  ago,  in  some  far-off  place  or  forgotten. 

“ Gabriel  Lajeunesse  1 ” they  said  ; “ O yes  1 we  have  seen  him. 

He  was  with  Basil  the  blacksmith,  and  both  have  gone  to  the  prairies  ; 
Coureurs-des-Bois  are  they,  and  famous  hunters  and  trappers.” 

“Gabriel  Lajeunesse  ! ” said  others  ; “0  yes  1 we  have  seen  him. 

He  is  a Yoyageur  in  the  lowlands  of  Louisiana.” 

Then  would  they  say,  “ Dear  child  ! why  dream  and  wait  for  him  longer  ? 
Are  there  not  other  youths  as  fair  as  Gabriel  ? others 
Who  have  hearts  as  tender  and  true,  and  spirits  as  loyal  ? 

Here  is  Baptiste  Leblanc,  tbe  notary’s  son,  who  has  loved  thee 
Many  a tedious  year  ; come,  give  him  thy  hand  and  be  happy  l 
Thou  art  too  fair  to  be  left  to  braid  St.  Catherine’s  tresses.  ’ 

Then  would  Evangeline  answer,  serenely  but  sadly,  “ 1 caunot  !; 

Whither  my  heart  has.  gone,  there  follows  my  hand,  and  not  elsewhere. 

For  when  the  heart  goes  before,  like  a lamp,  and  illumines  the  pathway. 
Many  things  are  made  clear,  that  else  lie  hidden  in  darkness.” 

Thereupon  the  priest,  her  friend  and  father-confessor, 

Said,  with  a smile,  “ O daughter  ! thy  God  thus  speaketh  within  thee  S 
Talk  not  of  wasted  affection,,  affection  never  was  wasted  ; 

If  it  enrich  not  the  heart  of  another,  its  waters,  returning 

Back  to  their  springs,  like  the  rain,  shall,  fill  them  full  of  refreshment  ; 

That  which  the  fountain  sends  forth  returns  again  to  the  fountain. 

Patience  ; accomplish  thy  labor  ; accomplish  thy  work  of  affection  f 
Sorrow  and  silence  are  strong,  and  patient  endurance  is  godlike. 

Therefore  accomplish  thy  labor  of  love,  till  the  heart  is  made  godlike,  ^ 
Purified,  strengthened,  perfected,  and  rendered  more  worthy  of  heaven  !** 
Cheered  by  the  good  man’s  words,  Evangeline  labored  and  waited. 

Still  in  her  heart  she  heard  the  funeral  dirge  of  the  ocean. 


EVANGELINE. 


109 


; But  with  its  sound  there  was  mingled  a voice  that  whispered,  “ Despair  not ! ” 
Thus  did  that  poor  soul  wander  in  want  and  cheerless  discomfort, 

Bleeding,  barefooted,  over  the  shards  and  thorns  of  existence, 
i Let  me  essay,  O Muse  ! to  follow  the  wanderer’s  footsteps  ; — 

1 Not  through  each  devious  path,  each  changeful  year  ol  existence  ; 

.<  But  as  a traveller  follows  a streamlet’s  course  through  the  valley  : 
i Far  from  its  margin  at  times,  and  seeing  the  gleam  of  its  water 
Here  and  there,  in  some  open  space,  and  at  intervals  only  ; 

Then  drawing  nearer  its  banks,  through  sylvan  glooms  that  conceal  it, 

Though  he  behold  it  not,  he  can  hear  its  continuous  murmur  ; 

Happy,  at  length,  if  he  find  the  spot  where  it  reaches  an  outlet. 

II. 

I It  was  the  month  of  May.  Far  down  the  Beautiful  River, 

Past  the  Ohio  shore  and  past  the  mouth  of  the  Wabash, 

Into  the  golden  stream  of  the  broad  and  swift  Mississippi, 
i Floated  a cumbrous  boat,  that  was  rowed  by  Acadian  boatmen, 
j It  was  a band  of  exiles  : a raft,  as  it  were,  from  the  shipwrecked 
Nation,  scattered  along  the  coast,  now  floating  together, 

I Bound  by  the  bonds  of  a common  belief  and  a common  misfortune  ; 

' Men  and  women  and  children,  who,  guided  by  hope  or  by  hearsay. 

Sought  for  their  kith  and  their  kin  among  the  few-acred  farmers 
On  the  Acadian  coast,  and  the  prairies  of  fair  Opelousas. 

With  them  Evangeline  went,  and  her  guide,  the  Father  Felician. 

! Onward  o’er  sunken  sands,  through  a wilderness  sombre  with  forests, 

I Day  after  day  they  glided  adown  the  turbulent  river  ; 

I Night  after  night,  by  their  blazing  fires,  encamped  on  its  borders.. 

J Now  through  rushing  chutes,  among  green  islands,  where  plumelike 
I Cotton-trees  nodded  their  shadowy  crests,  they  swept  with  the  current, 

; Then  emerged  into  broad  lagoons,  where  silvery  sand-bars 
I Lay  in  the  stream,  and  along  the  wirnpling  waves  of  their  margin, 

|j  Shining  with  snow-white  plumes,  large  flocks  of  pelicans  waded, 
j Level  the  landscape  grew,  and  along  the  shores  of  the  river, 

Shaded  by  china-trees,  in  the  midst  of  luxuriant  gardens, 

Stood  the  houses  of  planters,  wFth  negro-cabins  and  dove-cots. 

They  were  approaching  the  region  where  reigns  perpetual  summer, 

Where  through  the  Golden  Coast,  and  groves  of  orange  and  citron, 

; Sweeps  with  majestic  curve  the  river  away  to  the  eastward. 

They,  too,  swerved  from  their  course  ; and,  entering  the  Bayou  of  Plaquemine, 
Soon  were  lost  in  a maze  of  sluggish  and  devious  waters, 

[ Which,  like  a network  of  steel,  extended  in  every  direction. 

Over  their  heads  the  towering  and  tenebrous  boughs  of  the  cypress 
Met  in  a dusky  arch,  and  trailing  mosses  in  mid-air 
I Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls  of  ancient  cathedrals. 

Deathlike  the  silence  seemed,  and  unbroken,  save  by  the  herons 
Home  to  their  roosts  in  the  cedar- trees  returning  at  sunset, 

Or  by  the  owl,  as  he  greeted  the  moon  with  demoniac  laughter. 

Lovely  the  moonlight  was  as  it  glanced  and  gleamed  on  the  water, 
i Gleamed  on  the  columns  of  cypress  and  cedar  sustaining  the  arches, 

Down  through  whose  broken  vaults  it  fell  as  through  chinks  in  a ruin. 
Dreamlike,  and  indistinct,  and  strange  were  all  things  around  them  ; 

And  o’er  their  spirits  there  came  a feeling  of  wonder  and  sadness, — 

; Strange  forebodings  of  ill,  unseen  and  that  cannot  be  compassed. 

1 As,  at  the  tramp  of  a horse’s  hoof  on  the  turf  of  the  prairies, 

Far  in  advance  are  closed  the  leaves  of  the  shrinking  mimosa, 


110 


EVANGELINE. 


So,  at  the  hoof-beats  of  fate,  with  sad  forebodings  of  evil, 

Shrinks  and  closes  the  heart,  ere  the  stroke  of  doom  has  attained  it. 

But  Evangeline’s  heart  was  sustained  by  a vision,  that  faintly 
Floated  before  her  eyes,  and  beckoned  her  on  through  the  moonlight. 

It  was  the  thought  of  her  brain  that  assumed  the  shape  of  a phantom. 
Through  those  shadowy  aisles  had  Gabriel  wandered  before  her, 

And  every  stroke  of  the  oar  now  brought  him  nearer  and  nearer. 

Then  in  his  place,  at  the  prow  of  the  boat,  rose  one  of  the  oarsmen, 
And,  as  a signal  sound,  if  others  like  them  peradventure 
Sailed  on  those  gloomy  and  midnight  streams,  blew  a blast  on  his  bugle. 
Wild  through  the  dark  colonnades  and  corridors  leafy  the  blast  rang, 
Breaking  the  seal  of  silence,  and  giving  tongues  to  the  forest. 

Soundless  above  them  the  banners  of  moss  just  stirred  to  the  music. 
Multitudinous  echoes  awoke  and  died  in  the  distance, 

Over  the  watery  floor,  and  beneath  the  reverberant  branches  ; 

But  not  a voice  replied  ; no  answer  came  from  the  darkness  ; i 

And,  when  the  echoes  had  ceased,  like  a sense  of  pain  was  the  silence. 
Then  Evangeline  slept  ; but  the  boatmen  rowed  through  the  midnight, 
Silent  at  times,  then  singing  familiar  Canadian  boat-songs, 

Such  as  they  sang  of  old  on  their  own  Acadian  rivers, 

While  through  the  night  were  heard  the  mysterious  sounds  of  the  desert, 
Far  off,  — indistinct,  — as  of  wave  or  wind  in  the  forest, 

Mixed  with  the  whoop  of  the  crane  and  the  roar  of  the  grim  alligator. 

Thus  ere  another  noon  they  emerged  from  the  shades  ; and  before  them 
Lay,  in  the  golden  sun,  the  lakes  of  the  Atchafalaya. 

Water-lilies  in  myriads  rocked  on  the  slight  undulations 
Made  by  the  passing  oars,  and,  resplendent  in  beauty,  the  lotus 
Lifted  her  golden  crown  above  the  heads  of  the  boatmen. 

Faint  was  the  air  with  the  odorous  breath  of  magnolia  blossoms, 

And  with  the  heat  of  noon  ; and  numberless  sylvan  islands, 

Fragrant  and  thickly  embowered  with  blossoming  hedges  of  roses, 

Near  to  whose  shores  they  glided  along,  invited  to  slumber. 

Soon  by  the  fairest  of  these  their  weary  oars  were  suspended. 

Under  the  boughs  of  Wachita  willows,  that  grew  by  the  margin, 

Safely  their  boat  was  moored  ; and  scattered  about  on  the  greensward, 
Tired  with  their  midnight  toil,  the  weary  travellers  slumbered. 

Over  them  vast  and  high  extended  the  cope  of  a cedar. 

Swinging  from  its  great  arms,  the  trumpet-flower  and  the  grapevine 
Hung  theii  ladder  of  ropes  aloft  like  the  ladder  of  Jacob, 

On  whose  pendulous  stairs  the  angels  ascending,  descending, 

Were  the  swift  humming-birds,  that  flitted  from  blossom  to  blossom. 

Such  was  the  vision  Evangeline  saw  as  she  slumbered  beneath  it. 

Filled  was  her  heart  with  love,  and  the  dawn  of  an  opening  heaven 
Lighted  her  soul  in  sleep  with  the  glory  of  regions  celestial. 

Nearer,  ever  nearer,  among  the  numberless  islands, 

Darted  a light,  swift  boat,  that  sped  away  o’er  the  water, 

Urged  on  its  course  by  the  sinewy  arms  of  hunters  and  trappers. 
Northward  its  prow  was  turned,  to  the  land  of  the  bison  and  beaver. 

At  the  helm  sat  a youth,  with  countenance  thoughtful  and  careworn. 

Dark  and  neglected  locks  overshadowed  his  brow,  and  a sadness 
Somewhat  beyond  his  years  on  his  face  was  legibly  written. 

Gabriel  was  it,  who,  weary  with  waiting,  unhappy  and  restless, 

Sought  in  the  Western  wilds  oblivion  of  self  and  of  sorrow. 

Swiftly  they  glided  along,  close  under  the  lee  of  the  island. 


EVANGELINE. 


Ill 


But  by  the  opposite  bank,  and  behind  a screen  ot  palmettos, 

So  that  they  saw  not  the  boat,  where  it  lay  concealed  in  the  willows, 

All  undisturbed  by  the  dash  of  their  oars,  and  unseen,  were  the  sleepers, 
Ano-el  of  God  was  there  none  to  awaken  the  slumbering  maiden. 

Swiftly  they  glided  away,  like  the  shade  of  a cloud  on  the  prairie. 

After  the  sound  of  their  oars  on  the  tholes  had  died  in  the  distance, 

As  from  a magic  trance  the  sleepers  awoke,  and  the  maiden 
Said  with  a sigh  to  the  friendly  priest,  “ 0 Father  Felician  ! 

Something  says  in  my  heart  that  near  me  Gabiiel  wandeis. 

Is  it  a foolish  dream,  an  idle  and  vague  superstition  ? ^ 

Or  has  an  angel  passed,  and  revealed  the  truth  to  my  spirit  ? 

Then,  with  a blush,  she  added,  “Alas  for  my  credulous  fancy  ! 

Unto  ears  like  thine  such  words  as  these  have  no  meaning. 

But  made  answer  the  reverend  man,  and  he  smiled  as  he  answered,  . 

“ Daughter,  thy  words  are  not  idle  ; nor  are  they  to  me  without  meaning. 
Feeling  is  deep  and  still ; and  the  word  that  floats  on  the  surface 
Is  as  the  tossing  buoy,  that  betrays  where  the  anchor  is  hidden. 

Therefore  trust  to  thy  heart,  and  to  what  the  world  calls  illusions. 

Gabriel  truly  is  near  thee  ; for  not  far  away  to  the  southward, 

On  the  banks  of  the  Teche,  are  the  towns  of  St.  Maur  and  St.  Martin. 
There  the  long- wandering  bride  shall  be  given  again  to  her  bridegroom, 
There  the  long-absent  pastor  regain  his  flock  and  his  sheepfold. 

Beautiful  is  the  land,  with  its  prairies  and  forests  of  fruit-trees  ; 

Under  the  feet  a garden  of  flowers,  and  the  bluest  of  heavens 
Bending  above,  and  resting  its  dome  on  the  walls  of  the  forest. 

They  who  dwell  there  have  named  it  the  Eden  of  Louisiana.” 

With  these  words  of  cheer  they  arose  and  continued  their  journey. 

Softly  the  evening  came.  The  sun  from  the  western  horizon 
Like  a magician  extended  his  golden  wand  o’er  the  landscape  ; 

Twinkling  vapors  arose  ; and  sky  and  water  and  forest 
Seemed  all  on  fire  at  the  touch,  and  melted  and  mingled  together. 

Hanging  between  two  skies,  a cloud  with  edges  of  silver, 

Floated  the  boat,  with  its  dripping  oars,  on  the  motionless  water. 

Filled  wTas  Evangeline’s  heart  with  inexpressible  sweetness. 

Touched  by  the  magic  spell,  the  sacred  fountains  of  feeling 
Glowed  with  the  light  of  love,  as  the  skies  and  waters  around  her. 

Then  from  a neighboring  thicket  the  mocking-bird,  wildest  of  singers, 
Swinging  aloft  on  a willow  spray  that  hung  o’er  the  water, 

Shook  from  his  little  throat  such  floods  of  delirious  music, 

That  the  whole  air  and  the  woods  and  the  waves  seemed  silent  to  listen. 
Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones  and  sad  ; then  soaring  to  madness 
Seemed  they  to  follow  or  guide  the  revel  of  frenzied  Bacchantes. 

Single  notes  were  then  heard,  in  sorrowful,  low  lamentation  ; 

Till,  having  gathered  them  all,  he  flung  them  abroad  in  derision, 

As  when,  after  a storm,  a gust  of  wflnd  through  the  tree-tops 
Shakes  down  the  rattling  rain  in  a crystal  shower  on  the  branches. 

With  such  a prelude  as  this,  and  hearts  that  throbbed  with  emotion, 

Slowly  they  entered  the  Teche,  where  it  flows  through  the  green  Opelousas, 
And,  through  the  amber  air,  above  the  crest  of  the  woodland, 

Saw  the  column  of  smoke  that  arose  from  a neighboring  dwelling  ; — 
Sounds  of  a horn  they  heard,  and  the  distant  lowing  of  cattle. 


112 


EVANGELINE. 


III. 

Near  to  tlie  bank  of  the  river,  o’ershadowed  by  oaks,  from  whose  branches 
Garlands  of  Spanish  moss  and  of  mystic  mistletoe  flaunted, 

Such  as  the  Druids  cut  down  with  golden  hatchets  at  Yule-tide, 

Stood,  secluded  and  still,  the  house  of  the  herdsman.  A garden 
Girded  it  round  about  with  a belt  of  luxuriant  blossoms, 

Filling  the  air  with  fragrance.  The  house  itself  was  of  timbers 
Hewn  from  the  cypress-tree,  and  carefully  fitted  together. 

Large  and  low  was  the  roof ; and  on  slender  columns  supported, 
Bose-wreathed,  vine-encircled,  a broad  and  spacious  veranda, 

Haunt  of  the  humming-bird  and  the  bee,  extended  around  it. 

At  each  end  of  the  house,  amid  the  flowers  of  the  garden, 

Stationed  the  dove-cots  were,  as  love’s  perpetual  symbol, 

Scenes  of  endless  wooing,  and  endless  contentions  of  rivals. 

Silence  reigned  o’er  the  place.  The  line  of  shadow  and  sunshine 
Ean  near  the  tops  of  the  trees  ; but  the  house  itself  was  in  shadow, 

And  from  its  chimney-top,  ascending  and  slowly  expanding 
Into  the  evening  air,  a thin  blue  column  of  smoke  rose. 

In  the  rear  of  the  house,  from  the  garden  gate,  ran  a pathway 
Through  the  great  groves  of  oak  to  the  skirts  of  the  limitless  prairie. 

Into  whose  sea  of  flowers  the  sun  was  slowly  descending. 

Full  in  his  track  of  light,  like  ships  with  shadowy  canvas 
Hanging  loose  from  their  spars  in  a motionless  calm  in  the  tropics, 

Stood  a cluster  of  trees,  with  tangled  cordage  of  grapevines. 

Just  where  the  woodlands  met  the  flowery  surf  of  the  prairie, 

Mounted  upon  his  horse,  with  Spanish  saddle  and  stirrups, 

Sat  a herdsman,  arrayed  in  gaiters  and  doublet  of  deerskin. 

Broad  and  brown  was  the  face  that  from  under  the  Spanish  sombrero 
Gazed  on  the  peaceful  scene,  with  the  lordly  look  of  its  master. 

Bound  about  him  were  numberless  herds  of  kine,  that  were  grazing 
Quietly  in  the  meadows,  and  breathing  the  vapory  freshness 
That  uprose  from  the  river,  and  spread  itself  over  the  landscape. 

Slowly  lifting  the  horn  that  hung  at  his  side,  and  expanding 
Fully  his  broad,  deep  chest,  he  blew  a blast,  that  resounded 
Wildly  and  sweet  and  far,  through  the  still  damp  air  of  the  evening. 
Suddenly  out  of  the  grass  the  long  white  horns  of  the  cattle 
Bose  like  flakes  of  foam  on  the  adverse  currents  of  ocean. 

Silent  a moment  they  gazed,  then  bellowing  rushed  o’er  the  prairie, 

And  the  whole  mass  became  a cloud,  a shade  in  the  distance. 

Then,  as  the  herdsman  turned  to  the  house,  through  the  gate  of  the  garden 
Saw  he  the  forms  of  the  priest  and  the  maiden  advancing  to  meet  him. 
Suddenly  down  from  his  horse  he  sprang  in  amazement,  and  forward 
Bushed  with  extended  arms  and  exclamations  of  wonder  ; 

When  they  beheld  his  face,  they  recognized  Basil  the  blacksmith. 

Hearty  his  welcome  was,  as  he  led  his  guests  to  the  garden. 

There  in  an  arbor  of  roses  with  endless  question  and  answer 
Gave  they  vent  to  their  hearts,  and  renewed  their  friendly  embraces, 
Laughing  and  weeping  by  turns,  or  sitting  silent  and  thoughtful. 
Thoughtful,  for  Gabriel  came  not  ; and  now  dark  doubts  and  misgivings 
Stole  o’er  the  maiden’s  heart  ; and  Basil,  somewhat  embarrassed, 

Broke  the  silence  and  said,  “If  you  came  by  the  Atchafalaya, 

How  have  you  nowhere  encountered  my  Gabriel’s  boat  on  the  bayous  ?” 

Over  Evangeline’s  face  at  the  words  of  Basil  a shade  passed. 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  said,  with  a tremulous  accent, 

“ Gone  ? is  Gabriel  gone  ?”  and,  concealing  her  face  on  his  shoulder, 


EVANGELINE. 


113 


All  her  o’erburdened  heart  gave  way,  and  she  wept  and  lamented.. 

Then  the  good  Basil  said,  — and  his  voice  grew  blithe  as  he  said  it,  — 

‘ * Be  of  good  cheer,  my  child  ; it  is  only  to-day  he  departed. 

Foolish  boy  ! he  has  left  me  alone  with  my  herds  and  my  horses. 

Moody  and  restless  grown,  and  tried  and  troubled,  his  spirit 
Could  no  longer  endure  the  calm  of  this  quiet  existence. 

Thinking  ever  of  thee,  uncertain  and  sorrowful  ever, 

Ever  silent,  or  speaking  only  ot  thee  and  his  troubles, 

He  at  length  had  become  so~  tedious  to  men  and  to  maidens, 

Tedious  even  to  me,  that  at  length  I bethought  me,  and  sent  him 
Unto  the  town  of  Adayes  to  trade  for  mules  with  the  Spaniards. 

Thence  he  will  follow  the  Indian  trails  to  the  Ozark  Mountains, 

Hunting  for  furs  in  the  forests,  on  rivers  trapping  the  beaver. 

Therefore  be  of  good  cheer  ; we  will  follow  the  fugitive  lover  ; 

He  is  not  far  on  his  way,  and  the  Fates  and  the  streams  are  against  him. 

Up  and  away  to-morrow,  and  through  the  red  dew  ol  the  morning 
We  will  follow  him  fast,  and  bring  him  back  to  his  prison. 

Then  glad  voices  were  heard,  and  up  from  the  banks  of  the  river, 

Borne  aloft  on  his  comrades’  arms,  came  Michael  the  tiddler. 

Long  under  Basil’s  roof  had  he  lived  like  a god  on  Olympus, 

Having  no  other  care  than  dispensing  music  to  mortals. 

Far  renowned  was  he  for  his  silver  locks  and  his  fiddle. 

“ Long  live  Michael,”  they  cried,  “ our  brave  Acadian  minstrel ! ” 

As  they  bore  him  aloft  in  triumphal  procession  ; and  straightway 
Father  Felician  advanced  with  Evangeline,  greeting  the  old  man 
Kindly  and  oft,  and  recalling  the  past,  while  Basil,  enraptured, 

Hailed  with  hilarious  joy  his  old  companions  and  gossips, 

Laughing  loud  and  long,  and  embracing  mothers  and  daughters. 

Much  they  marvelled  to  see  the  wealth  of  the  cidevant  blacksmith, 

All  his  domains  and  his  herds,  and  his  patriarchal  demeanor  ; 

Much  they  marvelled  to  hear  his  tales  of  the  soil  and  the  climate, 

And  of  the  prairies,  whose  numberless  herds  were  his  who  would  take  them  ; 
Each  one  thought  in  his  heart,  that  he,  too,  would  go  and  do  likewise. 

Thus  they  ascended  the  steps,  and,  crossing  the  breezy  veranda, 

Entered  the  hall  of  the  house,  where  already  the  supper  of  Basil 
Waited  his  late  retarn  ; and  they  rested  and  feasted  together. 

Over  the  joyous  feast  the  sudden  darkness  descended. 

All  was  silent  without,  and,  illuming  the  landscape  with  silver, 

Fair  rose  the  dewy  moon  and  the  myriad  stars  ; but  within  doors, 

\ Brighter  than  these,  shone  the  faces  of  friends  in  the  glimmering  lamplight. 
Then  from  his  station  aloft,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  the  herdsman 
Poured  forth  his  heart  and  his  wine  together  in  endless  profusion. 

Lighting  his  pipe,  that  was  filled  with  sweet  Natchitoches  tobacco, 

Thus  he  spake  to  his  guests,  who  listened,  and  smiled  as  they  listened  : — 

“ Welcome  once  more,  my  friends,  who  long  have  been  friendless  and  homeless, 
Welcome  once  more  to  a home,  that  is  better  perchance  than  the  old  one  ! 

Here  no  hungry  winter  congeals  our  blood  like  the  rivers  ; 

Here  no  stony  ground  provokes  the  wrath  of  the  farmer. 

Smoothly  the  ploughshare  runs  through  the  soil,  as  a keel  through  the  water* 
All  the  year  round  the  orange-groves  are  in  blossom  ; and  grass  grows 
More  in  a single  night  than  a whole  Canadian  summer. 

Here,  too,  numberless  herds  run  wild  and  unclaimed  in  the  prairies  ; 

Here,  too,  lands  may  be  had  for  the  asking,  and  forests  of  timber 
With  a few  blows  of  the  axe  are  hewn  and  framed  into  houses. 

After  jmur  houses  are  built,  and  your  fields  are  yellow  with  harvests, 

8 


114 


EVANGELINE. 


No  King  George  of  England  shall  drive  you  away  from  your  homesteads, 
Burning  your  dwellings  and  harns,  and  stealing  your  farms  and  your  cattle.7’ 
Speaking  these  words,  he  blew  a wrathful  cloud  from  his  nostrils, 

While  his  huge,  brown  hand  came  thundering  down  on  the  table, 

So  that  the  guests  all  started  ; and  Father  Felician,  astounded. 

Suddenly  paused,  with  a pinch  of  snuff  half-way  to  his  nostrils. 

But  the  brave  Basil  resumed,  and  his  words  were  milder  and  gayer:  — 

“ Only  beware  of  the  fever,  my  friends,  beware  of  the  fever  ! 

For  it  is  not  like  that  of  our  cold  Acadian  climate, 

Cured  by  wearing  a spider  hung  round  one’s  neck  in  a nutshell ! ” 

Then  there  were  voices  heard  at  the  door,  and  footsteps  approaching 
Sounded  upon  the  stairs  and  the  floor  of  the  breezy  veranda. 

It  was  the  neighboring  Creoles  and  small  Acadian  planters, 

Who  had  been  summoned  all  to  the  house  of  Basil  the  Herdsman. 

Merry  the  meeting  was  of  ancient  comrades  and  neighbors  : 

Friend  clasped  friend  in  his  arms  ; and  they  who  before  were  as  strangers. 
Meeting  in  exile,  became  straightway  as  friends  to  each  other, 

Drawn  by  the  gentle  bond  of  a common  country  together. 

But  in  the  neighboring  hall  a strain  of  music,  proceeding 
From  the  accordant  strings  of  Michael’s  melodious  fiddle. 

Broke  up  all  further  speech.  Away,  like  children  delighted, 

All  things  forgotten  beside,  they  gave  themselves  to  the  maddening 
Whirl  of  the  dizzy  dance,  as  it  swept  and  swayed  to  the  music, 

Dreamlike,  with  beaming  eyes  and  the  rush  of  fluttering  garments. 

Meanwhile,  apart,  at  the  head  of  the  hall,  the  priest  and  the  herdsman 
Sat,  conversing  together  of  past  and  present  and  future  ; 

While  Evangeline  stood  like  one  entranced,  for  within  her 
Olden  memories  rose,  and  loud  in  the  midst  of  the  music 
Heard  she  the  sound  of  the  sea,  and  an  irrepressible  sadness 
Came  o’er  her  heart,  and  unseen  she  stole  forth  into  the  garden. 

Beautiful  was  the  night.  Behind  the  black  wall  of  the  forest, 

Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose  the  moon.  On  the  river 

Fell  here  and  there  through  the  branches  a tremulous  gleam  of  the  moonlight. 

Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a darkened  and  devious  spirit. 

Nearer  and  round  about  her,  the  manifold  flowers  of  the  garden 
Poured  out  their  souls  in  odors,  that  were  their  prayers  and  confessions 
Onto  the  night,  as  it  went  its  way,  like  a silent  Carthusian. 

Fuller  of  fragrance  than  they,  and  as  heavy  with  shadows  and  night-dews. 
Hung  the  heart  of  the  maiden.  The  calm  and  the  magical  moonlight 
Seemed  to  inundate  her  soul  with  indefinable  longings. 

As,  through  the  garden  gate,  and  beneath  the  shade  ol  the  oak-trees. 

Passed  she  along  the  path  to  the  edge  of  the  measureless  prairie. 

Silent  it  lay,  with  a silvery  haze  upon  it,  and  fire-flies 
Gleaming  and  floating  away  in  mingled  and  infinite  numbers. 

Over  her  head  the  stars,  the  thoughts  of  God  in  the  heavens, 

Shone  on  the  eyes  of  man,  who  had  ceased  to  marvel  and  worship. 

Save  when  a blazing  comet  was  seen  on  the  walls  of  that  temple,^ 

As  if  a hand  had  appeared  and  written  upon  them,  “ Upharsin.” 

And  the  soul  of  the  maiden,  between  the  stars  and  the  fire-flies, 

Wandered  alone,  and  she  cried,  “ 0 Gabriel  ! O my  beloved  ! 

Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  I cannot  behold  thee  ? 

Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  thy  voice  does  not  reach  me  ? 

Ah  ! how  often  thy  feet  have  trod  this  path  to  the  prairie  ! 

Ah  ! how  often  thine  eyes  have  looked  on  the  woodlands  around  me  ! 

Ah  ! how  often  beneath  this  oak,  returning  from  labor, 

Thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest,  and  to  dream  of  me  in  thy  slumbers  ! 


EVANGELINE. 


115 


When  shall  these  eyes  behold,  these  arms  be  folded  about  thee  ? ” 

Loud  and  sudden  and  near  the  note  of  a whippoorwill  sounded 

Like  a flute  in  the  woods  ; and  anon,  through  the  neighboring  thickets, 

Farther  and  farther  away  it  floated  and  dropped  into  silence. 

“ Patience  ! ” whispered  the  oaks  from  oracular  caverns  of  darkness  : 

And,  from  the  moonlit  meadow,  a sigh  responded,  “ To-morrow  ! ” 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  day  ; and  all  the  flowers  of  the  garden 
Bathed  his  shining  feet  with  their  tears,  and  anointed  his  tresses 
With  the  delicious  balm  that  they  bore  in  their  vases  of  crystal. 

“ Farewell  ! ” said  the  priest,  as  he  stood  at  the  shadowy  threshold  ; 

“ See  that  you  bring  us  the  Prodigal  Son  from  his  fasting  and  famine, 

And,  too,  the  Foolish  Virgin,  who  slept  when  the  bridegroom  was  coming.” 
“ Farewell  ! ” answered  the  maiden,  and,  smiling,  with  Basil  descended 
Down  to  the  river’s  brink,  where  the  boatmen  already  were  waiting. 

Thus  beginning  their  journey  with  morning,  and  sunshine,  and  gladness, 
Swiftly  they  followed  the  flight  of  him  who  was  speeding  before  them, 
Blown  by  the  blast  of  fate  like  a dead  leaf  over  the  desert. 

N"ot  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  yet  the  dajT  that  succeeded, 

Found  they  trace  of  his  course,  in  lake  or  forest  or  river, 

Nor,  after  many  days,  had  they  found  him  ; but  vague  and  uncertain 
Rumors  alone  were  their  guides  through  a wild  and  desolate  country  ; 

Till,  at  the  little  inn  of  the  Spanish  town  of  Adayes, 

Weary  and  worn,  they  alighted,  and  learned  from  the  garrulous  landlord, 
That  on  the  day  before,  with  horses  and  guides  and  companions, 

Gabriel  left  the  village,  and  took  .the  road  of  the  prairies. 

IV. 

Far  in  the  West  there  lies  a desert  land,  where  the  mountains 
Lift,  through  perpetual  snows,  their  lofty  and  luminous  summits. 

Down  from  their  jagged,  deep  ravines,  where  the  gorge,  like  a gateway, 
Opens  a passage  rude  to  the  wheels  of  the  emigrant’s  wagon, 

Westward  the  Oregon  flows  and  the  Walleway  and  Owyhee. 

Eastward,  with  devious  course,  among  the  Wind-river  Mountains, 

Through  the  Sweet-water  Valley  precipitate  leaps  the  Nebraska  ; 

And  to  the  south,  from  Fontaine-qui-bout  and  the  Spanish  sierras, 

Fretted  with  sands  and  rocks,  and  swept  by  the  wind  of  the  desert, 
Numberless  torrents,  with  ceaseless  sound,  descend  to  the  ocean, 

Like  the  great  chords  of  a harp,  in  loud  and  solemn  vibrations. 

Spreading  between  these  streams  are  the  wondrous,  beautiful  prairies, 
Billowy  bays  of  grass  ever  rolling  in  shadow  and  sunshine, 

Bright  with  luxuriant  clusters  of  roses  and  purple  amorphas. 

Over  them  wandered  the  buffalo  herds,  and  the  elk  and  the  roebuck  ; 

Over  them  wandered  the  wolves,  and  herds  of  riderless  horses  ; 

Fires  that  blast  and  blight,  and  winds  that  are  weary  with  travel  ; 

Over  them  Wander  the  scattered  tribes  of  Ishmael’s  children, 

Staining  the  desert  with  blood  ; and  above  their  terrible  war-trails 
Circles  and  sails  aloft,  on  pinions  majestic,  the  vulture, 

Like  the  implacable  soul  of  a chieftain  slaughtered  in  battle, 

By  invisible  stairs  ascending  and  scaling  the  heavens. 

Here  and  there  rise  smokes  from  the  camps  of  these  savage  marauders  ; 

Here  and  there  rise  groves  from  the  margins  of  swift-running  rivers  ; 

And  the  grim,  taciturn  bear,  the  anchorite  monk  of  the  desert, 

Climbs  down  their  dark  ravines  to  dig  for  roots  by  the  brook-side, 

And  over  all  is  the  sky,  the  clear  and  crystalline  heaven, 

Like  the  protecting  hand  of  God  inverted  above  them, 


116 


EVANGELINE. 


Into  this  wonderful  land,  at  the  base  of  the  Ozark  Mountains, 

Gabriel  far  had  entered,  with  hunters  and  trappers  behind  him. 

Day  after  day,  with  their  Indian  guides,  the  maiden  and  Basil 
Followed  his  flying  steps,  and  thought  each  day  to  o’ertake  him. 

Sometimes  they  saw,  or  thought  they  saw,  the  smoke  of  his  camp-fire 
Rise  in  the  morning  air  from  the  distant  plain  ; but  at  nightfall, 

When  they  had  reached  the  place,  they  found  only  embers  and  ashes. 

And,  though  their  hearts  were  sad  at  times  and  their  bodies  were  weary, 

Hope  still  guided  them  on,  as  the  magic  Fata  Morgana 

Showed  them  her  lakes  of  light,  that  retreated  and  vanished  before  them. 

Once,  as  they  sat  by  their  evening  fire,  there  silently  entered 
Into  the  little  camp  an  Indian  woman,  whose  features 
Wore  deep  traces  of  sorrow,  and  patience  as  great  as  her  sorrow. 

She  was  a Shawnee  woman  returning  home  to  her  people, 

From  the  far-off  hunting-grounds  of  the  cruel  Camanches, 

Where  her  Canadian  husband,  a Coureur-des-Bois,  had  been  murdered. 
Touched  were  their  hearts  at  her  story,  and  warmest  and  friendliest  welcome 
Gave  they,  with  words  of  cheer,  and  she  sat  and  feasted  among  them 
On  the  buffalo-meat  and  the  venison  cooked  on  the  embers. 

But  when  their  meal  was  done,  and  Basil  and  all  his  companions, 

Worn  with  the  long  day’s  march  and  the  chase  of  the  deer  and  the  bison, 
Stretched  themselves  on  the  ground,  and  slept  where  the  quivering  fire-light 
Flashed  on  their  swarthy  cheeks,  and  their  forms  wrapped  up  in  their  blankets. 
Then  at  the  door  of  Evangeline’s  tent  she  sat  and  repeated 
Slowly,  with  soft,  low  voice,  and  the  charm  of  her  Indian  accent, 

All  the  tale  of  her  love,  with  its  pleasures,  and  pains,  and  reverses. 

Much  Evangeline  wept  at  the  tale,  and  to  know  that  another 
Hapless  heart  like  her  own  had  loved  and  had  been  disappointed. 

Moved  to  the  depths  of  her  soul  by  pity  and  woman’s  compassion, 

Yet  in  her  sorrow  pleased  that  one  who  had  suffered  was  near  her, 

She  in  turn  related  her  love  and  all  its  disasters. 

Mute  with  wonder  the  Shawnee  sat,  and  when  she  had  ended 

Still  was  mute  ; but  at  length,  as  if  a mysterious  horror 

Passed  through  her  brain,  she  spake,  and  repeated  the  tale  of  the  Mowis  ; 

Mowis,  the  bridegroom  of  snow,  who  won  and  wedded  a maiden, 

But,  when  the  morning  came,  arose  and  passed  from  the  wigwam, 

Fading  and  melting  away  and  dissolving  into  the  sunshine, 

Till  she  beheld  him  no  more,  though  she  followed  far  into  the  forest. 

Then,  in  those  sweet,  low  tones,  that  seemed  like  a weird  incantation, 

Told  she  the  tale  of  the  fair  Lilinau,  who  was  wooed  by  a phantom, 

That,  through  the  pines  o’er  her  father’s  lodge,  in  the  hush  of  the  twilight, 
Breathed  like  the  evening  wind,  and  whispered  love  to  the  maiden, 

Till  she  followed  his  green  and  waving  plume  through  the  forest, 

And  nevermore  returned,  nor  was  seen  again  by  her  people. 

Silent  with  wonder  and  strange  surprise,  Evangeline  listened 
To  the  soft  flow  of  her  magical  words,  till  the  region  around  her 
Seemed  like  enchanted  ground,  and  her  swarthy  guest  the  enchantress. 

Slowly  over  the  tops  of  the  Ozark  Mountains  the  moon  rose, 

Lighting  the  little  tent,  and  with  a mysterious  splendor 
Touching  the  sombre  leaves,  and  embracing  and  filling  the  woodland. 

With  a delicious  sound  the  brook  rushed  by,  and  the  branches 
Swayed  and  sighed  overhead  in  scarcely  audible  whispers. 

Filled  with  the  thoughts  of  love  was  Evangeline’s  heart,  but  a secret, 

Subtile  sense  crept  in  of  pain  and  indefinite  terror, 

As  the  cold,  poisonous  snake  creeps  into  the  nest  of  the  swallow. 


EVANGELINE. 


117 


It  was  no  earthly  fear.  A breath  from  the  region  of  spirits 
Seemed  to  float  in  the  air  of  night  ; and  she  felt  for  a moment 
That,  like  the  Indian  maid,  she,  too,  was  pursuing  a phantom. 

With  this  thought  she  slept,  and  the  fear  and  the  phantom  had  vanished. 

Early  upon  the  morrow  the  march  was  resumed  ; and  the  Shawnee 
Said,  as  they  journeyed  along,  “ On  the  western  slope  of  these  mountains 
Dwells  in  his  little  village  the  Black  Robe  chief  of  the  Mission. 

Much  he  teaches  the  people,  and  tells  them  of  Mary  and  Jesus  ; 

Loud  laugh  their  hearts  with  joy,  and  weep  with  pain,  as  they  hear  him.” 
Then,  with  a sudden  and  secret  emotion,  Evangeline  answered, 

“ Let  us  go  to  the  Mission,  for  there  good  tidings  await  us  ! ” 

Thither  they  turned  their  steeds  ; and  behind  a spur  of  the  mountains, 
Just  as  the  sun  w*ent  down,  they  heard  a murmur  of  voices, 

And  in  a meadow  green  and  broad,  by  the  bank  of  a river, 

Saw  the  tents  of  the  Christians,  the  tents  of  the  Jesuit  Mission. 

Under  a towering  oak,  that  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  village, 

Knelt  the  Black  Robe  chief  with  his  children.  A crucifix  fastened 
High  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  overshadowed  by  grapevines, 

Looked  with  its  agonized  face  on  the  multitude  kneeling  beneath  it. 

This  was  their  rural  clmpel.  Aloft,  through  the  intricate  arches 
Of  its  aerial  roof,  arose  the  chant  of  their  vespers, 

Mingling  its  notes  with  the  soft  susurrus  and  sighs  of  the  branches. 

Silent,  with  heads  uncovered,  the  travellers,  nearer  approaching, 

Knelt  on  the  swarded  floor,  and  joined  in  the  evening  devotions. 

But  when  the  service  was  done,  and  the  benediction  had  fallen 
Forth  from  the  hands  of  the  priest,  like  seed  from  the  hands  of  the  sower, 
Slowly  the  reverend  man  advanced  to  the  strangers,  and  bade  them 
Welcome  ; and  when  they  replied,  he  smiled  with  benignant  expression, 
Hearing  the  homelike  sounds  of  his  mother-tongue  in  the  forest, 

And,  with  words  of  kindness,  conducted  them  into  his  wigwam. 

There  upon  mats  and  skins  they  reposed,  and  on  cakes  of  the  maize-ear 
Feasted,  and  slaked  their  thirst  from  the  water-gourd  of  the  teacher. 

Soon  was  their  story  told  ; and  the  priest  with  solemnity  answered : — 
“Not  six  suns  have  risen  and  set  since  Gabriel,  seated 
On  this  mat  by  my  side,  where  now  the  maiden  reposes, 

Told  me  this  same  sad  tale  ; then  arose  and  continued  his  journey  ! ” 

Soft  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  he  spake  with  an  accent  of  kindness  ; 
But  on  Evangeline’s  heart  fell  his  words  as  in  winter  the  snow-flakes 
Fall  into  some  lone  nest  from  which  the  birds  have  departed. 

“Far  to  the  north  he  has  gone,”  continued  the  priest ; “but  in  autumn, 
When  the  chase  is  done,  will  return  again  to  the  Mission.” 

Then  Evangeline  said,  and  her  voice  was  meek  and  submissive, 

“ Let  me  remain  with  thee,  for  my  soul  is  sad  and  afflicted.” 

So  seemed  it  wise  and  well  unto  all  ; and  betimes  on  the  morrow, 
Mounting  his  Mexican  steed,  with  his  Indian  guides  and  companions, 
Homeward  Basil  returned,  and  Evangeline  stayed  at  the  Mission. 

Slowly,  slowly,  slowly  the  days  succeeded  each  other,  — 

Days  and  weeks  and  months  ; and  the  fields  of  maize  that  were  springing 
Green  from  the  ground  when  a stranger  she  came,  now  waving  above  her, 
Lifted  their  slender  shafts,  with  leaves  interlacing,  and  forming 
Cloisters  for  mendicant  crows  and  granaries  pillaged  by  squirrels. 

Then  in  the  golden  weather  the  maize  was  husked,  and  the  maidens 
Blushed  at  each  blood-red  ear,  for  that  betokened  a lover. 

But  at  the  crooked  laughed,  and  called  it  a thief  in  the  corn-field. 

Even  the  blood-red  ear  to  Evangeline  brought  not  her  lover. 


118 


EVANGELINE. 


“ Patience  ! ” the  priest  would  say ; 4 ‘ have  faith,  and  thy  prayer  will  be  answered  ! 
Look  at  this  vigorous  plant  that  lifts  its  head  from  the  meadow, 

See  how  its  leaves  are  turned  to  the  north,  as  true  as  the  magnet ; 

This  is  the  compass-flower,  that  the  finger  of  God  has  planted 
Here  in  the  houseless  wild,  to  direct  the  traveller’s  journey 
Over  the  sea-like,  pathless,  limitless  waste  of  the  desert. 

Such  in  the  soul  of  man  is  faith.  The  blossoms  of  passion, 

Gay  and  luxuriant  flowers,  are  brighter  and  fuller  of  fragrance, 

But  they  beguile  us,  and  lead  us  astray,  and  their  odor  is  deadly. 

Only  this  humble  plant  can  guide  us  here,  and  hereafter 

Crown  us  with  asphodel  flowers,  that  are  wet  with  the  dews  of  nepenthe.  ” 

So  came  the  autumn,  and  passed,  and  the  winter,  — yet  Gabriel  came  not ; 
Blossomed  the  opening  spring,  and  the  notes  of  the  robin  and  bluebird 
Sounded  sweet  upon  wold  and  in  wood,  yet  Gabriel  came  not. 

But  on  the  breath  of  the  summer  winds  a rumor  was  wafted 
Sweeter  than  song  of  bird,  or  hue  or  odor  of  blossom. 

Far  to  the  north  and  east,  it  said,  in  the  Michigan  forests, 

Gabriel  had  his  lodge  by  the  banks  of  the  Saginaw  River. 

And,  with  returning  guides,  that  sought  the  lakes  of  St.  Lawrence, 

Saying  a sad  farewell,  Evangeline  went  from  the  Mission. 

When  over  weary  ways,  by  long  and  perilous  marches, 

She  had  attained  at  length  the  depths  of  the  Michigan  forests, 

Found  she  the  hunter’s  lodge  deserted  and  fallen  to  ruin  ! 

Thus  did  the  long  sad  years  glide  on,  and  in  seasons  and  places 
Divers  and  distant  far  was  seen  the  wandering  maiden  ; — 

Now  in  the  Tents  of  Grace  of  the  meek  Moravian  Missions, 

Now  in  the  noisy  camps  and  the  battle-fields  of  the  army, 

Now  in  secluded  hamlets,  in  towns  and  populous  cities. 

Like  a phantom  she  came,  and  passed  away  unremembered. 

Fair  was  she  and  young,  when  in  hope  began  the  long  journey  ; 

Faded  was  she  and  old,  when  in  disappointment  it  ended. 

Each  succeeding  year  stole  something  away  from  her  beauty, 

Leaving  behind  it,  broader  and  deeper,  the  gloom  and  the  shadow. 

Then  there  appeared  and  spread  faint  streaks  of  gray  o’er  her  forehead. 

Dawn  of  another  life,  that  broke  o’er  her  earthly  horizon, 

As  in  the  eastern  sky  the  first  faint  streaks  of  the  morning. 

V. 

In  that  delightful  land  which  is  vrashed  by  the  Delaware’s  waters,  - 
Guarding  in  sylvan  shades  the  name  of  Penn  the  apostle, 

Stands  on  the  banks  of  its  beautiful  stream  the  city  he  founded. 

There  all  the  air  is  balm,  and  the  peach  is  the  emblem  of  beauty, 

And  the  streets  still  re-echo  the  names  of  the  trees  of  the  forest, 

As  if  they  fain  would  appease  the  Dryads  whose  haunts  they  molested. 

There  from  the  troubled  sea  had  Evangeline  landed,  an  exile, 

Finding  among  the  children  of  Penn  a home  and  a country. 

There  old  Rene  Leblanc  had  died  ; and  when  he  departed, 

Saw  at  his  side  only  one  of  all  his  hundred  descendants. 

Something  at  least  there  -was  in  the  friendly  streets  of  the  cit}% 

Something  that  spake  to  her  heart,  and  made  her  no  longer  a stranger  ; 

And  her  ear  was  pleased  with  the  Thee  and  Thou  of  the  Quakers, 

For  it  recalled  the  past,  the  old  Acadian  country, 

Where  all  men  were  equal,  and  all  were  brothers  and  sisters. 

So,  when  the  fruitless  search,  the  disappointed  endeavor, 


EVANGELINE. 


119 


Ended,  to  recommence  no  more  upon  earth,  uncomplaining, 

Thither,  as  leaves  to  the  light,  were  turned  her  thoughts  and  her  footsteps. 
As  from  a mountain’s  top  the  rainy  mists  of  the  morning 
Roll  away,  and  afar  we  behold  the  landscape  below  us, 

Sun-illumined,  with  shining  rivers  and  cities  and  hamlets, 

So  fell  the  mists  from  her  mind,  and  she  saw  the  world  far  below  her, 

Dark  no  longer,  hut  all  illumined  with  love  ; and  the  pathway 
Which  she  had  climbed  so  far,  lying  smooth  and  fair  in  the  distance. 
Gabriel  was  not  forgotten.  Within  her  heart  was  his  image  _ 

Clothed  in  the  beauty  of  love  and  youth,  as  last  she  beheld  him, 

Only  more  beautiful  made  by  his  deathlike  silence  and  absence. 

Into  her  thoughts  of  him  time  entered  not,  for  it  was  not. 

Over  him  years  had  no  power  ; he  was  not  changed,  but  tiansngured  ; 

He  had  become  to  her  heart  as  one  who  is  dead,  and  not  absent ; 

Patience  and  abnegation  of  self,  and  devotion  to  others, 

This  was  the  lesson  a life  of  trial  and  sorrow  had  taught  her. 

So  was  her  love  diffused,  but,  like  to  some  odorous  spices, 

Suffered  no  waste  nor  loss,  though  filling  the  air  with  aroma. 

Other  hope  had  she  none,  nor  wish  in  life,  but  to  follow 
Meekly,  with  reverent  steps,  the  sacred  feet  of  her  Saviour. 

Thus  many  years  she  lived  as  a Sister  of  Mercy  ; frequenting 
Lonelv  and  wretched  roofs  in  the  crowded  lanes  of  the  city, 

Where  distress  and  want  concealed  themselves  from  the  sunlight, 

Where  disease  and  sorrow  in  garrets  languished  neglected. 

Night  after  night,  when  the  world  was  asleep,  as  the  watchman  repeated 
Loud,  through  the  gusty  streets,  that  all  was  well  in  the  city, 

High  at  some  lonely  window  he  saw  the  light  of  her  taper. 

Day  after  day,  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  slow  through  the  suburbs 
Plodded  the  German  farmer,  with  flowers  and  fruits  for  the  market, 

Met  he  that  meek,  pale  face,  returning  home  from  its  watchings. 

Then  it  came  to  pass  that  a pestilence  fell  on  the  city, 

Presaged  by  wondrous  signs,  and  mostly  by  flocks  of  wild  pigeons, 
Darkening  the  sun  in  their  flight,  with  naught  in  their  craws  but  an  acorn. 
And,  as  the  tides  of  the  sea  arise  in  the  month  of  September, 

Flooding  some  silver  stream,  till  it  spreads  to  a lake  in  the  meadow, 

So  death  flooded  life,  and,  o’erflowing  its  natural  margin, 

Spread  to  a brackish  lake,  the  silver  stream  of  existence. 

Wealth  had  no  power  to  bribe,  nor  beauty  to  charm,  the  oppressor  ; 

But  all  perished  alike  beneath  the  scourge  of  his  anger  ; — 

Only,  alas  ! the  poor,  who  had  neither  friends  nor  attendants, 

Crept  away  to  die  in  the  almshouse,  home  of  the  homeless. 

Then  in  the  suburbs  it  stood,  in  the  . midst  of  meadows  and  woodlands  ; — - 
Now  the  city  surrounds  it ; but  still,  with  its  gateway  and  wicket 
Meek,  in  the  midst  of  splendor,  its  humble  walls  seem  to  echo 
Softly  the  words  of  the  Lord  : — “ The  poor  ye  always  have  with  you.” 
Thither,  by  night  and  by  day,  came  the  Sister  of  Mercy.  The  dying 
Looked  up  into  her  face,  and  thought,  indeed,  to  behold  there 
Gleams  of  celestial  light  encircle  her  forehead  with  splendor, 

Such  as  the  artist  paints  o’er  the  brows  of  saints  and  apostles, 

Or  such  as  hangs  by  night  o’er  a city  seen  at  a distance. 

Unto  their  eyes  it  seemed  the  lamps  of  the  city  celestial, 

Into  whose  shining  gates  erelong  their  spirits  would  enter. 

Thus,  on  a Sabbath  morn,  through  the  streets,  deserted  and  silent. 
Wending  her  quiet  way,  she  entered  the  door  of  the  almshouse. 

Sweet  on  the  summer  air  was  the  odor  of  flowers  in  the  garden  ; 


120 


EVANGELINE. 


And  she  paused  on  her  way  to  gather  the  fairest  among  them, 

That  the  dying  once  more  might  rejoice  in  their  iragrance  and  beauty. 

Then,  as  she  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  corridors,  cooled  by  the  east- wind, 
Distant  and  soft  on  her  ear  fell  the  chimes  from  the  belfry  of  Christ  Church, 
While,  intermingled  with  these,  across  the  meadows  were  wafted 
Sounds  of  psalms,  that  were  sung  by  the  Swedes  in  their  church  at  Wicaco. 
Soft  as  descending  wings  fell  the  calm  of  the  hour  on  her  spirit ; 

Something  within  her  said,  “ At  length  thy  trials  are  ended”  ; 

And,  with  light  in  her  looks,  she  entered  the  chambers  of  sickness. 

Noiselessly  moved  about  the  assiduous,  careful  attendants, 

Moistening  the  feverish  lip,  and  the  aching  brow,  and  in  silence 
Closing  the  sightless  eyes  of  the  dead,  and  concealing  their  faces, 

Where  on  their  pallets  they  lay,  like  drifts  of  snow  by  the  roadside. 

Many  a languid  head,  upraised  as  Evangeline  entered, 

Turned  on  its  pillow  of  pain  to  gaze  while  she  passed,  for  her  presence 
Fell  on  their  hearts  like  a ray  ol  the  sun  on  the  walls  of  a prison. 

And,  as  she  looked  around,  she  saw  how  Death,  the  consoler, 

Laying  his  hand  upon  many  a heart,  had  healed  it  forever. 

Many  familiar  forms  had  disappeared  in  the  night  time  ; 

Vacant  their  places  were,  or  filled  ahead}7"  by  strangers. 

Suddenly,  as  if  arrested  by  fear  or  a feeling  of  wonder, 

Still  she  stood,  with  her  colorless  lips  apart,  while  a shudder 

flan  through  her  frame,  and,  forgotten,  the  flowerets  dropped  from  her  fingers, 

And  from  her  eyes  and  cheeks  the  light  and  bloom  of  the  morning. 

Then  there  escaped  from  her  lips  a cry  of  such  terrible  anguish, 

That  the  dying  heard  it,  and  started  up  from  their  pillows. 

On  the  pallet  before  her  was  stretched  the  form  of  an  old  man. 

Long,  and  thin,  and  gray  were  the  locks  that  shaded  his  temples  ; 

But,  as  he  lay  in  the  morning  light,  his  face  for  a moment 
Seemed  to  assume  once  more  the  forms  of  its  earlier  manhood  ; 

So  are  wont  to  be  changed  the  faces  of  those  who  are  dying. 

Hot  and  red  on  his  lips  still  burned  the  flush  of  the  fever, 

As  if  life,  like  the  Hebrew,  with  blood  had  besprinkled  its  portals, 

That  the  Angel  of  Death  might  see  the  sign,  and  pass  over. 

Motionless,  senseless,  dying,  he  lay,  and  his  spirit  exhausted 
Seemed  to  be  sinking  down  through  infinite  depths  in  the  darkness, 

Darkness  of  slumber  and  death,  forever  sinking  and  sinking. 

Then  through  those  realms  of  shade,  in  multiplied  reverberations, 

Heard  he  that  cry  of  pain,  and  through  the  hush  that  succeeded 
Whispered  a gentle  voice,  in  accents  tender  and  saint-like, 

“ Gabriel  ! 0 my  beloved  ! ” and  died  away  into  silence. 

Then  he  beheld,  in  a dream,  once  more  the  home  of  his  childhood  ; 

Green  Acadian  meadows,  with  sylvan  rivers  among  them, 

Tillage,  and  mountain,  and  woodlands  ; and,  walking  under  their  shadow. 

As  in  the  days  of  her  youth,  Evangeline  rose  in  his  vision. 

Tears  came  into  his  eyes  ; and  as  slowly  he  lifted  his  eyelids, 

Vanished  the  vision  away,  but  Evangeline  knelt  by  his  bedside. 

Vainly  he  strove  to  whisper  her  name,  for  the  accents  unuttered 

Died  on  his  lips,  and  their  motion  revealed  what  his  tongue  would  have  spoken. 

Vainly  he  strove  to  rise  ; and  Evangeline,  kneeling  beside  him, 

Kissed  his  dying  lips,  and  laid  his  head  on  her  bosom. 

Sweet  was  the  light  of  his  eyes  ; but  it  suddenly  sank  into  darkness, 

As  when  a lamp  is  blown  out  by  a gust  of  wind  at  a casement. 

All  was  ended  now,  the  hope,  and  the  fear,  and  the  sorrow, 

All  the  aching  of  heart,  the  restless,  unsatisfied  longing, 


DEDICATION. 


121 


All  the  dull,  deep  pain,  and  constant  anguish  of  patience  ! 

And,  as  she  pressed  once  more  the  lifeless  head  to  her  bosom, 

Meekly  she  bowed  her  own,  and  murmured,  “Father,  I thank  thee  ! ” 


Still  stands  the  forest  primeval  ; but  far  away  from  its  shadow, 

Side  by  side,  in  their  nameless  graves,  the  lovers  are  sleeping. 

Under  the  humble  walls  of  the  little  Catholic  churchyard, 

In  the  heart  of  the  city,  they  lie,  unknown  and  unnoticed. 

Daily  the  tides  of  life  go  ebbing  and  flowing  beside  them, 

Thousands  of  throbbing  hearts,  where  theirs  are  at  rest  and  forever, 
Thousands  of  aching  brains,  where  theirs  no  longer  are  busy, 

Thousands  of  toiling  hands,  where  theirs  have  ceased  from  their  labors, 
Thousands  of  weary  feet,  where  theirs  have  completed  their  journey  ! 

Still  stands  the  forest  primeval  ; but  under  the  shade  of  its  branches 
Dwells  another  race,  with  other  customs  and  language. 

Only  along  the  shore  of  the  mournful  and  misty  Atlantic 
Linger  a few  Acadian  peasants,  whose  fathers  from  exile 
Wandered  back  to  their  native  land  to  die  in  its  bosom. 

In  the  fisherman’s  cot  the  wheel  and  the  loom  are  still  busy  ; 

Maidens  still  wear  their  Norman  caps  and  their  kirtles  of  homespun, 
And  by  the  evening  fire  repeat  Evangeline’s  story, 

While  from  its  rocky  caverns  the  deep-voiced,  neighboring  ocean 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail  of  the  forest. 


THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


DEDICATION. 

As  one  who,  walking  in  the  twilight 
gloom, 

Hears  round  about  him  voices  as  it 
darkens, 

And  seeing  not  the  forms  from  which 
they  come., 

Pauses  from  time  to  time,  and  turns 
and  hearkens  ; 

So  walking  here  in  twilight,  0 my 
friends  ! 

I hear  your  voices,  softened  by  the 
distance, 

And  pause,  and  turn  to  listen,  as  each 
sends 

His  words  of  friendship,  comfort,  and 
assistance. 

If  any  thought  of  mine,  or  sung  or  told, 

Has  ever  given  delight  or  consolation, 

Ye  have  repaid  me  back  a thousand-fold, 

By  every  friendly  sign  and  salutation. 


Thanks  for  the  sympathies  that  ye  have 
shown  ! 

Thanks  for  each  kindly  word,  each 
silent  token, 

That  teaches  me,  when  seeming  most 
alone, 

Friends  are  around  us,  though  no  word 
be  spoken. 

Kind  messages,  that  pass  from  land  to 
land  ; 

Kind  letters,  that  betray  the  heart’s 
deep  history, 

In  which  we  feel  the  pressure  of  a 
hand,  — 

One  touch  of  fire,  — and  all  the  rest 
is  mystery  ! 

The  pleasant  books,  that  silently  among 

Our  household  treasures  take  familiar 
places, 

And  are  to  us  as  if  a living  tongue 

Spake  from  the  printed  leaves  or  pic- 
tured faces  ! 


122 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


Perhaps  on  earth  I never  shall  behold, 

With  eye  of  sense,  your  outward  form 
and  semblance  ; 

Therefore  to  me  ye  never  will  grow  old, 

But  live  forever  young  in  my  remem- 
brance. 

Never  grow  old,  nor  change,  nor  pass 
away  ! 

Your  gentle  voices  will  flow  on  forever, 

When  life  grows  bare  and  tarnished  with 
decay, 

As  through  a leafless  landscape  flows  a 
river. 

Not  chance  of  birth  or  place  has  made 
us  friends, 

Being  oftentimes  of  different  tongues 
and  nations, 


But  the  endeavor  for  the  selfsame  ends, 
With  the  same  hopes,  and  fears,  and 
aspirations. 

Therefore  I hope  to  join  your  seaside 
walk, 

Saddened,  and  mostly  silent,  with 
emotion  ; 

Not  interrupting  with  intrusive  talk 
The  grand,  majestic  symphonies  of 
ocean. 

Therefore  I hope,  as  no  unwelcome  guest, 
At  your  warm  fireside,  when  the  lamps 
are  lighted, 

To  have  my  place  reserved  among  the 
rest, 

Nor  stand  as  one  unsought  and  unin- 
vited ! 


BY  THE 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 

“ Build  me  straight,  0 worthy  Master  I 
Stanch  and  strong,  a goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wres- 
tle ! ” 

The  merchant’s  word 
Delighted  the  Master  heard  ; 

For  his  heart  was  in  his  work,  and  the 
heart 

Giveth  grace  unto  every  Art. 

A quiet  smile  played  round  his  lips, 

As  the  eddies  and  dimples  of  the  tide 
Play  round  the  bows  of  ships, 

That  steadily  at  anchor  ride. 

And  with  a voice  that  was  full  of  glee, 
He  answered,  “ Erelong  we  will  launch 
A vessel  as  goodly,  and  strong,  and 
stanch, 

As  ever  weathered  a wintry  sea  ! ” 

And  first  with  nicest  skill  and  art, 
Perfect  and  finished  in  every  part, 

A little  model  the  Master  wrought, 
Which  should  be  to  the  larger  plan 
What  the  child  is  to  the  man, 

Its  counterpart  in  miniature  ; 

That  with  a hand  more  swift  and  sure 
The  greater  labor  might  be  brought 


SEASIDE. 

To  answer  to  his  inward  thought. 

And  as  he  labored,  his  mind  ran  o’er 
The  various  ships  that  were  built  of  yore, 
And  above  them  all,  and  strangest  of  all 
Towered  the  Great  Harry,  crank  and 
tall, 

Whose  picture  was  hanging  on  the  wall, 
With  bows  and  stern  raised  high  in  air, 
And  balconies  hanging  here  and  there, 
And  signal  lanterns  and  flags  afloat, 
And  eight  round  towers,  like  those  that 
frown 

From  some  old  castle,  looking  down 
Upon  the  drawbridge  and  the  moat. 

And  he  said  with  a smile,  “ Our  ship,  \ 
wis, 

Shall  be  of  another  form  than  this  ! ” 

It  was  of  another  form,  indeed  ; 

Built  for  freight,  and  yet  for  speed, 

A beautiful  and  gallant  craft ; 

Broad  in  the  beam,  that  the  stress  of  the 
blast, 

Pressing  down  upon  sail  and  mast, 
Might  not  the  sharp  bows  overwhelm  ; 
Broad  in  the  beam,  but  sloping  aft 
With  graceful  curve  and  slow  degrees, 
That  she  might  be  docile  to  the  helm, 
And  that  the  currents  of  parted  seas, 
Closing  behind,  with  mighty  force, 
Might  aid  and  not  impede  her  course. 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


123 


In  the  ship-yard  stood  the  Master, 

With  the  model  of  the  vessel, 

That  should  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  ! 

Covering  many  a rood  of  ground, 

Lay  the  timber  piled  around  ; 

Timber  of  chestnut,  and  elm,  and  oak, 
And  scattered  here  and  there,  with  these, 
The  knarred  and  crooked  cedar  knees  ; 
Brought  from  regions  far  away, 

From  Pascagoula’s  sunny  bay, 

And  the  banks  of  the  roaring  Roanoke  ! 
Ah  ! what  a wondrous  thing  it  is 
To  note  how  many  wheels  of  toil 
One  thought,  one  word,  can  set  in  mo- 
tion ! 

There ’s  not  a ship  that  sails  the  ocean, 
But  every  climate,  every  soil, 

Must  bring  its  tribute,  great  or  small, 
And  help  to  build  the  wooden  wall ! 

The  sun  was  rising  o’er  the  sea, 

And  long  the  level  shadows  lay, 

As  if  they,  too,  the  beams  would  be 
Of  some  great,  airy  argosy, 

Framed  and  launched  in  a single  day. 
That  silent  architect,  the  sun, 

Had  hewn  and  laid  them  every  one, 

Ere  the  work  of  man  was  yet  begun. 
Beside  the  Master,  when  he  spoke, 

A youth,  against  an  anchor  leaning, 
Listened,  to  catch  his  slightest  mean- 
ing. 

Only  the  long  waves,  as  they  broke 
In  ripples  on  the  pebbly  beach, 
Interrupted  the  old  man’s  speech. 

Beautiful  they  were,  in  sooth, 

The  old  man  and  the  fiery  youth  ! 

The  old  man,  in  whose  busy  brain 
Many  a ship  that  sailed  the  main 
Was  modelled  o’er  and  o’er  again  ; — 
The  fiery  youth,  who  was  to  be 
The  heir  of  his  dexterity, 

The  heir  of  his  house,  and  his  daughter’s 
hand, 

When  he  had  built  and  launched  from 
land 

What  the  elder  head  had  planned. 

“Thus,”  said  he,  “will  we  build  this 
ship ! 

Lay  square  the  blocks  upon  the  slip, 
And  follow  well  this  plan  of  mine. 
Choose  the  timbers  with  greatest  care  ; 
Of  alZ  that  is  unsound  beware  ; 


For  only  what  is  sound  and  strong 
To  this  vessel  shall  belong. 

Cedar  of  Maine  and  Georgia  pine 
Here  together  shall  combine. 

A goodly  frame,  and  a goodly  fame, 

And  the  Union  be  her  name  ! 

For  the  day  that  gives  her  to  the  sea 
Shall  give  my  daughter  unto  thee  ! ” 

The  Master’s  word 

Enraptured  the  young  man  heard  ; 

And  as  he  turned  his  face  aside, 

AVith  a look  of  joy  and  a thrill  of  pride 
Standing  before 
Her  father’s  door, 

He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride. 
The  sun  shone  on  her  golden  hair, 

And  her  cheek  was  glowing  fresh  and 
fair, 

AVith  the  breath  of  morn  and  the  soft 
sea  air. 

Like  a beauteous  barge  was  she, 

Still  at  rest  on  the  sandy  beach, 

Just  beyond  the  billow’s  reach  ; 

But  he 

Was  the  restless,  seething,  stormy  sea  ! 

Ah,  how  skilful  grows  the  hand 
That  obeyeth  Love’s  command  ! 

It  is  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain, 

That  to  the  highest  doth  attain, 

And  he  who  folio wetli  Love’s  behest 
Far  excelleth  all  the  rest  ! 

Thus  with  the  rising  of  the  sun 
Was  the  noble  task  begun, 

And  soon  throughout  the  ship-yard’s 
bounds 

Were  heard  the  intermingled  sounds 
Of  axes  and  of  mallets,  plied 
With  vigorous  arms  on  every  side  ; 

Plied  so  deftly  and  so  well, 

That,  ere  the  shadows  of  evening  fell, 
The  keel  of  oak  for  a noble  ship, 

Scarfed  and  bolted,  straight  and  strong, 
Was  lying  ready,  and  stretched  along 
The  blocks,  well  placed  upon  the  slip. 
Happy,  thrice  happy,  every  one 
AVho  sees  his  labor  well  begun, 

And  not  perplexed  and  multiplied, 

By  idly  waiting  for  time  and  tide  1 

And  when  the  hot,  long  day  was  o’er. 
The  young  man  at  the  Master’s  door 
Sat  with  the  maiden  calm  and  still. 

And  within  the  porch,  a little  more 
Removed  beyond  the  evening  chill, 


124 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


The  father  sat,  and  told  them  tales 
Of  wrecks  in  the  great  September  gales, 
Of  pirates  coasting  the  Spanish  Main, 
And  ships  that  never  came  back  again, 
The  chance  and  change  of  a sailor’s  life, 
Want  and  plenty,  rest  and  strife, 

His  roving  fancy,  like  the  wind, 

That  nothing  can  stay  and  nothing  can 
bind, 

And  the  magic  charm  of  foreign  lands, 
With  shadows  of  palms,  and  shining 
sands, 

Where  the  tumbling  surf, 

O’er  the  coral  reefs  of  Madagascar, 
Washes  the  feet  of  the  swarthy  Lascar, 
As  he  lies  alone  and  asleep  on  the  turf. 
And  the  trembling  maiden  held  her 
breath 

At  the  tales  of  that  awful,  pitiless  sea, 
With  all  its  terror  and  mystery, 

The  dim,  dark  sea,  so  like  unto  Death, 
That  divides  and  yet  unites  mankind ! 
And  whenever  the  old  man  paused,  a 
gleam 

From  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  would  awhile 
illume 

The  silent  group  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
And  thoughtful  faces,  as  in  a dream  ; 
And  for  a moment  one  might  mark 
What  had  been  hidden  by  the  dark, 
That  the  head  of  the  maiden  lay  at  rest, 
Tenderly,  on  the  young  man’s  breast ! 

Day  by  day  the  vessel  grew, 

With  timbers  fashioned  strong  and 
true, 

Stemson  and  keelson  and  sternson-knee, 
Till,  framed  with  perfect  symmetry, 

A skeleton  ship  rose  up  to  view  ! 

And  around  the  bows  and  along  the 
side 

The  heavy  hammers  and  mallets  plied, 
Till  after  many  a week,  at  length, 
Wonderful  for  form  and  strength, 
Sublime  in  its  enormous  bulk, 

Loomed  aloft  the  shadowy  hulk  ! 

And  around  it  columns  of  smoke,  up- 
wreathing, 

Bose  from  the  boiling,  bubbling,  seething 
Caldron,  that  glowed, 

And  overflowed 

With  the  black  tar,  heated  for  the 
sheathing. 

And  amid  the  clamors 
Of  clattering  hammers, 

He  who  listened  heard  now  and  then 
The  song  of  the  Master  and  his  men  : — 


“ Build  me  straight,  0 worthy  Master, 
Stanch  and  strong,  a goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle ! ” 

With  oaken  brace  and  copper  band, 

Lay  the  rudder  on  the  sand, 

That,  like  a thought,  should  have  con- 
trol 

Over  the  movement  of  the  wdiole  ; 

And  near  it  the  anchor,  whose  giant 
hand 

Would  reach  down  and  grapple  with  the 
land, 

And  immovable  and  fast 
Hold  the  great  ship  against  the  bellow- 
ing blast  ! 

And  at  the  bows  an  image  stood, 

By  a cunning  artist  carved  in  wood, 
With  robes  of  white,  that  far  behind 
Seemed  to  be  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

It  was  not  shaped  in  a classic  mould, 
Not  like  a Nymph  or  Goddess  of  old, 

Or  Naiad  rising  from  the  water, 

But  modelled  from  the  Master’s  daugfji- 
ter  ! 

On  many  a dreary  and  misty  night, 

’T  will  be  seen  by  the  rays  of  the  signal 
. light, 

Speeding  along  through  the  rain  and  the 
dark, 

Like  a ghost  in  its  snow-white  sark, 

The  pilot  of  some  phantom  bark, 
Guiding  the  vessel,  in  its  flight, 

By  a path  none  other  knows  aright ! 
Behold,  at  last, 

Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 
Is  swung  into  its  place  ; 

Shrouds  and  stays 
Holding  it  firm  and  fast  ! 

Long  ago, 

In  the  deer-haunted  forests  of  Maine, 
When  upon  mountain  and  plain 
Lay  the  snow, 

They  fell,  — those  lordly  pines  ! 

Those  grand,  majestic  pines  ! 

’Mid  shouts  and  cheers 
The  jaded  steers, 

Panting  beneath  the  goad, 

Dragged  down  the  weary,  winding  road 
Those  captive  kings  so  straight  and  tall, 
To  be  shorn  of  their  streaming  hair, 
And,  naked  and  bare, 

To  feel  the  stress  and  the  strain 
Of  the  wind  and  the  reeling  main, 

Whose  roar 


THE  BUILDING 

Would  remind  them  forevermore 
Of  their  native  forests  they  should  not 
see  again. 

And  everywhere 

The  slender,  graceful  spars 

Poise  aloft  in  the  air, 

And  at  the  mast-head, 

White,  blue,  and  red, 

A flag  unrolls  the  stripes  and  stars. 

Ah!  when  the  wanderer,  lonely,  friendless, 
In  foreign  harbors  shali  behold 
That  flag  unrolled, 

’T  will  be  as  a friendly  hand 
Stretched  out  from  his  native  land, 
Filling  his  heart  with  memories  sweet 
and  endless  ! 

All  is  finished  ! and  at  length 
Has  come  the  bridal  day 
Of  beauty  and  of  strength. 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched  ! 
’With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched, 
And  o’er  the  bay, 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  dight, 

The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 

The  ocean  old, 

Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled, 
Paces  restless  to  and  fro, 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest ; 

And  far  and  wide, 

With  ceaseless  flow, 

His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 
He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 

There  she  stands, 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay, 

In  honor  of  her  marriage  day, 

Her  snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blend- 
ing* 

Round  her  like  a veil  descending, 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  gray  old  sea. 

On  the  deck  another  bride 
Is  standing  by  her  lover’s  side. 

Shadows  from  the  flags  and  shrouds, 

Like  the  shadows  cast  by  clouds, 

Broken  by  many  a sunny  fleck, 

Fall  around  them  on  the  deck. 

The  prayer  is  said, 

The  service  read, 


OF  THE  SHIP.  125 

The  joyous  bridegroom  bows  his  head  ; 
And  in  tears  the  good  old  Master 
Shakes  the  brown  hand  of  his  son, 
Kisses  his  daughter’s  glowing  cheek 
In  silence,  for  he  cannot  speak, 

And  ever  faster 

Down  his  own  the  tears  begin  to  run. 
The  worthy  pastor  — 

The  shepherd  of  that  wandering  flock, 
That  has  the  ocean  for  its  wold, 

That  has  the  vessel  for  its  fold, 

Leaping  ever  from  rock  to  rock  — 
Spake,  with  accents  mild  and  clear, 
Words  of  warning,  words  of  cheer. 

But  tedious  to  the  bridegroom’s  ear. 

He  knew  the  chart 
Of  the  sailor’s  heart, 

All  its  pleasures  and  its  griefs, 

All  its  shallows  and  rocky  reefs, 

All  those  secret  currents,  that  flow 
With  such  resistless  undertow, 

And  lift  and  drift,  with  terrible  force, 
The  will  from  its  moorings  and  its 
course. 

Therefore  he  spake,  and  thus  said 
he  : — 

“ Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 

Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 
Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon’s  bound, 
Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 
And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies, 
And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink, 

As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer 
brink. 

Ah  ! it  is  not  the  sea, 

It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 

Now  touching  the  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 
Ah  ! if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 
Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 
To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 
We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 
The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining 
beach 

The  sights  we  see,  and  the  sounds  we 
hear, 

Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear  ! ” 

Then  the  Master, 

With  a gesture  of  command, 

Waved  his  hand  ; 

And  at  the  word. 


126 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA. 


Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard, 

All  around  them  and  below, 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 
Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 
And  see  ! she  stirs  ! 

She  starts,  — she  moves,  — she  seems  to 
feel 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel, 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 
With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 

She  leaps  into  the  ocean’s  arms  ! 

And  lo  ! from  the  assembled  crowd 
There  rose  a shout,  prolonged  and  loud, 
That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say, 

‘ ‘ Take  her,  0 bridegroom,  old  and  gray, 
Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms, 

With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms  ! ” 

How  beautiful  she  is  ! How  fair 
She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  press 
Her  form  with  many  a soft  caress 
Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care  ! 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  0 ship  ! 

Through  wind  and  wave,  right  on- 
ward steer  ! 

The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 
Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 

0 gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 

And  safe  from  all  adversity 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be  ! 

For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 
Prevail  o’er  angry  wave  and  gust ; 

And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still  survives  ! 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  0 Ship  of  State  ! 

Sail  on,  0 Union,  strong  and  great  ! 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 

With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 

Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  ! 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Work  men  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a forge  and  what  a heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  ! 
Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 
’T  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock  ; 

*T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 

In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest’s  roar, 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea  ! 


Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our 
tears, 

Our  faith  triumphant  o’er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee,  — are  all  with  thee  ! 


CHRYSAOR. 

Just  above  yon  sandy  bar, 

As  the  day  grows  fainter  and  dimmer, 

Lonely  and  lovely,  a single  star 

Lights  the  air  with  a dusky  glimmer. 

Into  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Falls  the  trail  of  its  golden  splendor. 

And  the  gleam  of  that  single  star 
Is  ever  refulgent,  soft,  and  tender. 

Chrysaor,  rising  out  of  the  sea, 

Showed  thus  glorious  and  thus  emu- 
lous, 

Leaving  the  arms  of  Callirrhoe, 

Forever  tender,  soft,  and  tremulous. 

Thus  o’er  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Trailed  the  gleam  of  his  falchion 
brightly  ; 

Is  it  a God,  or  is  it  a star 

That,  entranced,  I gaze  on  nightly  ! 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA. 

Ah  ! what  pleasant  visions  haunt  me 
As  I gaze  upon  the  sea  ! 

All  the  old  romantic  legends, 

All  my  dreams,  come  back  to  me. 

Sails  of  silk  and  ropes  of  sandal, 
Such  as  gleam  in  ancient  lore  ; 

And  the  singing  of  the  sailors, 

And  the  answer  from  the  shore  ! 

Most  of  all,  the  Spanish  ballad 
Haunts  me  oft,  and  tarries  long, 

Of  the  noble  Count  Arnaldos 
And  the  sailor’s  mystic  song. 

Like  the  long  waves  on  a sea-beach, 
Where  the  sand  as  silver  shines, 

With  a soft,  monotonous  cadence, 
Flow  its  unrhymed  lyric  lines  ; — 

Telling  how  the  Count  Arnaldos, 
With  his  hawk  upon  his  hand, 

Saw  a fair  and  stately  galley, 
Steering  onward  to  the  land  ; — 


SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT. 


127 


How  he  heard  the  ancient  helmsman 
Chant  a song  so  wild  and  clear, 

That  the  sailing  sea-bird  slowly 
Poised  upon  the  mast  to  hear, 

Till  his  soul  was  full  of  longing, 

And  he  cried,  with  impulse  strong,  — 
“Helmsman  ! for  the  love  of  heaven, 
Teach  me,  too,  that  wondrous  song  ! ” 

“Wouldst  thou,”  — so  the  helmsman 
answered, 

“ Learn  the  secret  of  the  sea  ? 

Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 
Comprehend  its  mystery  ! ” 

In  each  sail  that  skims  the  horizon, 

In  each  landward-blowing  breeze, 

I behold  that  stately  galley, 

Hear  those  mournful  melodies  ; 

Till  my  soul  is  full  of  longing 
For  the  secret  of  the  sea, 

And  the  heart  of  the  great  ocean 
Sends  a thrilling  pulse  through  me. 


TWILIGHT. 

Tfie  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 

The  wind  blows  wild  and  free, 

And  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 

But  in  the  fisherman’s  cottage 
There  shines  a ruddier  light, 

And  a little  face  at  the  window 
Peers  out  into  the  night. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 
As  if  those  childish  eyes 
Were  looking  into  the  darkness, 

To  see  some  form  arise. 

And  a woman’s  waving  shadow 
Is  passing  to  and  fro, 

Now  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 

What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  bleak  and  wild, 
As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 

Tell  to  that  little  child  ? 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak, 
As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother, 
Drive  the  color  from  her  cheek  ? 


SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT. 

Southward  with  fleet  of  ice 
Sailed  the  corsair  Death  ; 

Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast, 

And  the  east-wind  was  his  breath. 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 
Glisten  in  the  sun  ; 

On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide, 
Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run. 

His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 
Dripped  with  silver  rain  ; 

But  where  he  passed  there  were  cast 
Leaden  shadows  o’er  the  main. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed  ; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  he  bore. 
Then,  alas  ! the  land-wind  failed. 

Alas  ! the  land-wind  failed, 

And  ice-cold  grew  the  night  ; 

And  nevermore,  on  sea  or  shore, 

Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light. 

He  sat  upon  the  deck, 

The  Book  was  in  his  hand  ; 

“ Do  not  fear  ! Heaven  is  as  near,” 

He  said,  “ by  water  as  by  land  ! ” 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night, 
Without  a signal’s  sound, 

Out  of  the  sea,  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 

The  moon  and  the  evening  star 
Were  hanging  in  the  shrouds  ; 

Every  mast,  as  it  passed, 

Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  clouds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize. 

At  midnight  black  and  cold  ! 

As  of  a rock  was  the  shock  ; 

Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 

Southward  through  day  and  dark, 

They  drift  in  close  embrace, 

With  mist  and  rain,  o’er  the  open  main 
Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place. 

Southward,  forever  southward, 

They  drift  through  dark  and  day  ; 

And  like  a dream,  in  the  Gulf-Stream 
Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 


128 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 

The  rocky  ledge  runs  far  into  the  sea, 

And  on  its  outer  point,  some  miles 
away, 

The  Lighthouse  lifts  its  massive  ma- 
sonry, 

A pillar  of  fire  by  night,  of  cloud  by 
day. 

Even  at  this  distance  I can  see  the 
tides, 

Upheaving,  break  unheard  along  its 
base, 

A speechless  wrath,  that  rises  and  sub- 
sides 

In  the  white  lip  and  tremor  of  the  face. 

And  as  the  evening  darkens,  lo  ! how 
bright, 

Through  the  deep  purple  of  the  twi- 
light air, 

Beams  forth  the  sudden  radiance  of  its 
light 

With  strange,  unearthly  splendor  in 
the  glare  ! 

Hot  one  alone  ; from  each  projecting 
cape 

And  perilous  reef  along  the  ocean’s 
verge, 

Starts  into  life  a dim,  gigantic  shape, 

Holding  its  lantern  o’er  the  restless 
surge. 

Like  the  great  giant  Christopher  it 
stands 

Upon  the  brink  of  the  tempestuous 
wave, 

Wading  far  out  among  the  rocks  and 
sands, 

The  night-o’ertaken  mariner  to  save. 

And  the  great  ships  sail  outward  and 
return, 

Bending  and  bowing  o’er  the  billowy 
swells, 

And  ever  joyful,  as  they  see  it  burn, 

They  wave  their  silent  welcomes  and 
farewells. 

They  come  forth  from  the  darkness,  and 
their  sails 

Gleam  for  a moment  only  in  the  blaze, 

And  eager  faces,  as  the  light  unveils, 

Gaze  at  the  tower,  and  vanish  while 
they  gaze. 


The  mariner  remembers  when  a 
child, 

On  his  first  voyage,  he  saw  it  fade  and 
sink  ; 

And  when,  returning  from  adventures 
wild, 

He  saw  it  rise  again  o’er  ocean’s  brink. 

Steadfast,  serene,  immovable,  the  same 

Year  after  year,  through  all  the  silent 
night 

Burns  on  forevermore  that  quenchless 
flame, 

Shines  on  that  inextinguishable  light  ! 

It  sees  the  ocean  to  its  bosom  clasp 

The  rocks  and  sea-sand  with  the  kiss 
of  peace  ; 

It  sees  the  wild  winds  lift  it  in  their 
grasp, 

And  hold  it  up,  and  shake  it  like  a 
fleece. 

The  startled  waves  leap  over  it ; the 
storm 

Smites  it  with  all  the  scourges  of  the 
rain, 

And  steadily  against  its  solid  form 

Press  the  great  shoulders  of  the  hur- 
ricane. 

The  sea-bird  wheeling  round  it,  with  the 
din 

Of  wings  and  winds  and  solitary 
cries, 

Blinded  and  maddened  by  the  light 
within, 

Dashes  himself  against  the  glare,  and 
dies. 

A new  Prometheus,  chained  upon  the 
rock, 

Still  grasping  in  his  hand  the  fire  of 
Jove, 

It  does  not  hear  the  cry,  nor  heed  the 
shock, 

But  hails  the  mariner  with  words  of 
love. 

‘ ‘ Sail  on  ! it  says,  ‘ 4 sail  on,  ye  stately 
ships  ! 

And  with  your  floating  bridge  the 
ocean  span  ; 

Be  mine  to  guard  this  light  from  all 
eclipse, 

Be  yours  to  bring  man  nearer  unto 
man  ! ” 


RESIGNATION. 


129 


THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD. 

DEVEREUX  FARM,  NEAR  MARBLEHEAD. 

We  sat  within  the  farm-house  old, 
Whose  windows,  looking  o’er  the  hay, 
Gave  to  the  sea-breeze,  damp  and  cold, 
An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 

Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port, 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent 
town, 

The  lighthouse,  the  dismantled  fort, 

The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 

We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room  ; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight, 

Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 

We  spake  of  many  a vanished  scene, 

Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and 
said, 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been, 

; And  who  was  changed,  and  who  was 
dead ; 

And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends, 

, When  first  they  feel,  with  secret  pain, 
Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate 
ends, 

jj  And  never  can  be  one  again  ; 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart, 

[;  That  words  are  powerless  to  express, 


BY  THE  ] 

RESIGNATION. 

There  m no  flock,  however  watched  and 
tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  Is  there  ! 

There  is  no  fireside,  bowsoe’er  defended, 
But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dv- 
ing, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 
iThe  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children 
. crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

9 


And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part. 

Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 

The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 
Had  something  strange,  1 could  but 
mark  ; 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips, 

As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 
Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships, 

The  flames  would  leap  and  then  expire. 

And,  as  their  splendor  flashed  and 
failed, 

We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main, 
Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. 

The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames. 
The  ocean,  roaring  up  the  beach, 

The  gusty  blast,  the  bickering  flames, 
All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech  ; 

Until  they  made  themselves  a part 
Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain, 
The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart. 

That  send  no  answers  back  again. 

O flames  that  glowed  ! 0 hearts  that 
yearned  ! 

They  were  indeed  too  much  akin, 

The  drift-wood  fire  without  that  burned. 
The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed 
within. 


HRESIDE. 

Let  us  be  patient  ! These  severe  afflic- 
tions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 

But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and 
vapors ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 

What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven’s  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death  ! What  seems  so  is 
transition  ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 


130 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


Is  but  a suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead,  — the  child  of  our  affec- 
tion, — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 

Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  pro- 
tection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister’s  stillness  and  se- 
clusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 

Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin’s 
pollution, 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air  ; 

Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursu- 
ing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  un- 
broken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 

Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though 
unspoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a child  shall  we  again  behold 
her ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 

In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a child  ; 

But  a fair  maiden,  in  her  Father’s  man- 
sion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 

And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul’s  expan- 
sion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with 
emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 

The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like 
the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feel- 
ing 

We  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 

By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


THE  BUILDERS. 

All  are  architects  of  Fate, 

Working  in  these  walls  of  Time  ; 

Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is,  or  low  ; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best ; 

And  what  seems  but  idle  show 
Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise, 

Time  is  with  materials  filled  ; 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 

Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

Truly  shape  and  fashion  these  ; 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between  ; 

Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 

Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 

In  the  elder  days  of  Art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 

Each  minute  and  unseen  part ; 

For  the  Gods  see  everywhere. 

Let  us  do  our  work  as  well, 

Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen  ; 

Make  the  house,  where  Gods  may  dwell, 
Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean. 

Else  our  lives  are  incomplete, 

Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 

Broken  stairways,  where  the  feet 
Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 

Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure, 
With  a firm  and  ample  base  ; 

And  ascending  and  secure 

Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place. 

Thus  alone  can  we  attain 

To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 

Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain, 

And  one  boundless  reach  of  sky. 


SAND  OF  THE  DESERT  IN  AN 
HOUR-GLASS. 

A.  handful  of  red  sand,  from  the  hot 
clime 

Of  Arab  deserts  brought, 

Within  this  glass  becomes  the  spy  of 
Time, 

The  minister  of  Thought. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


131 


How  many  weary  centuries  has  it  "been 
About  those  deserts  blown  ! 

How  many  strange  vicissitudes  has  seen, 
How  many  histories  known  ! 

Perhaps  the  camels  of  the  Ishmaelite 
Trampled  and  passed  it  o’er, 

When  into  Egypt  from  the  patriarch’s 
sight 

His  favorite  son  they  bore. 

Perhaps  the  feet  of  Moses,  burnt  and 
bare, 

Crushed  it  beneath  their  tread  ; 

Or  Pharaoh’s  flashing  wheels  into  the  air 
Scattered  it  as  they  sped  ; 

Or  Mary,  with  the  Christ  of  Nazareth 
Held  close  in  her  caress, 

Whose  pilgrimage  of  hope  and  love  and 
faith 

Illumed  the  wilderness  ; 

Or  anchorites  beneath  Engaddi’s  palms 
Pacing  the  Dead  Sea  beach, 

And  singing  slow  their  old  Armenian 
psalms 

In  half-articulate  speech  ; 

Or  caravans,  that  from  Bassora’s  gate 
With  westward  steps  depart ; 

Or  Mecca’s  pilgrims,  confident  of  Fate, 
And  resolute  in  heart ! 

These  have  passed  over  it,  or  may  have 
passed  ! 

Now  in  this  crystal  tower 
Imprisoned  by  some  curious  hand  at  last, 
It  counts  the  passing  hour. 

And  as  I gaze,  these  narrow  walls  ex- 
pand ; 

Before  my  dreamy  eye 
Stretches  the  desert  with  its  shifting 
sand, 

Its  unimpeded  sky. 

And  borne  aloft  by  the  sustaining  blast, 
This  little  golden  thread 
Dilates  into  a column  high  and  vast, 

A form  of  fear  and  dread. 

And  onward,  and  across  the  setting  sun, 
Across  the  boundless  plain, 

The  column  and  its  broader  shadow 
run, 

Till  thought  pursues  in  vain. 


The  vision  vanishes  ! These  walls  again 
Shut  oat  the  lurid  sun, 

Shut  out  the  hot,  immeasurable  plain  ; 
The  half-hour’s  sand  is  run  ! 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

Black  shadows  fall 
From  the  lindens  tall, 

That  lift  aloft  their  massive  wall 
Against  the  southern  sky ; 

And  from  the  realms 
Of  the  shadowy  elms 
A tide-like  darkness  overwhelms 
The  fields  that  round  us  lie. 

But  the  night  is  fair, 

And  everywhere 
A warm,  soft  vapor  fills  the  air, 

And  distant  sounds  seem  near ; 

And  abo.ve,  in  the  light 
Of  the  star-lit  night, 

Swift  birds  of  passage  wing  their  flight 
Through  the  dewy  atmosphere. 

I hear  the  beat 
Of  their  pinions  fleet, 

As  from  the  land  of  snow  and  sleet 
They  seek  a southern  lea. 

I hear  the  cry 

Of  their  voices  high 

Falling  dreamily  through  the  sky, 

But  their  forms  1 cannot  see. 

0,  say  not  so  ! 

Those  sounds  that  flow 
In  murmurs  of  delight  and  woe 
Come  not  from  wings  of  birds. 

They  are  the  throngs 
Of  the  poet’s  songs, 

Murmurs  of  pleasures,  and  pains,  and 
wrongs, 

The  sound  of  winged  words. 

This  is  the  cry 

Of  souls,  that  high 

On  toiling,  beating  pinions,  fly, 

Seeking  a warmer  clime. 

From  their  distant  flight 
Through  realms  of  light 
It  falls  into  our  world  of  night, 

With  the  murmuring  sound  of  rhyme. 


132 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


THE  OPEN  WINDOW. 

The  old  house  by  the  lindens 
Stood  silent  in  the  shade. 

And  on  the  gravelled  pathway 
The  light  and  shadow  played. 

I saw  the  nursery  windows 
Wide  open  to  the  air  ; 

But  the  faces  of  the  children. 

They  were  no  longer  there. 

The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 
Was  standing  by  the  door  ; 

He  looked  for  his  little  playmates. 
Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindens, 
They  played  not  in  the  hall ; 

But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness 
Were  hanging  over  all. 

The  birds  sang  in  the  branches. 

With  sweet,  familiar  tone  ; 

But  the  voices  of  the  children 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone  ? 

And  the  hoy  that  walked  beside  me. 
He  could  not  understand 

Why  closer  in  mine,  all  ! closer, 

I pressed  his  warm,  soft,  hand  ! 


KING  WITLAFS  DRINKING- 
HORN. 

Witlaf,  a king  of  the  Saxons, 

Ere  yet  his  last  he  breathed, 

To  the  merry  monks  of  Croyland 
His  drinking-horn  bequeathed,  — 

That,  whenever  they  sat  at  their  revels. 
And  drank  from  the  golden  howl, 

They  might  remember  the  donor, 

And  breathe  a prayer  for  his  soul. 

So  sat  they  once  at  Christmas, 

And  bade  the  goblet  pass  ; 

In  their  beards  the  red  wine  glistened 
Like  dew-drops  in  the  grass. 

They  drank  to  the  soul  of  Witlaf, 

They  drank  to  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  to  each  of  the  Twelve  Apostles, 
Who  had  preached  his  holy  word. 


They  drank  to  the  Saints  and  Martyrs 
Of  the  dismal  days  of  yore, 

And  as  soon  as  the  horn  was  empty 
They  remembered  one  Saint  more. 

And  the  reader  droned  from  the  pulpit, 
Like  the  murmur  of  many  bees. 

The  legend  of  good  Saint  Guthlac, 

And  Saint  Basil’s  homilies ; 

Till  the  great  hells  of  the  convent. 

From  their  prison  in  the  tower, 
Guthlac  and  Bartholomseus, 

Proclaimed  the  midnight  hour. 

And  the  Yule-log  cracked  in  the  chim> 
ney. 

And  the  Abbot  bowed  his  head, 

And  the  flamelets  flapped  and  flickered. 
But  the  Abbot  was  stark  and  dead. 

Yet  still  in  his  pallid  fingers 
He  clutched  the  golden  bowl, 

In  which,  like  a pearl  dissolving. 

Had  sunk  and  dissolved  his  soul. 

But  not  for  this  their  revels 
The  jovial  monks  forbore. 

For  they  cried,  “ Fill  high  the  goblet  \ 
We  must  drink  to  one  Saint  more  1 ” 


GASPAR  BECERRA. 

By  his  evening. fire  the  artist 
Pondered  o’er  his  secret  shame  ; 

Baffled,  weary,  and  disheartened, 

Still  he  mused,  and  dreamed  of  fanusc 

’T  was  an  image  of  the  Virgin 

That  had  tasked  his  utmost  skill ; 

But,  alas  ! his  fair  ideal 

Vanished  and  escaped  him  still. 

From  a distant  Eastern  island 

Had  the  precious  wood  been  brought  ? 

Day  and  night  the  anxious  master 
At  his  toil  untiring  wrought ; 

Till,  discouraged  and  desponding. 

Sat  he  now  in  shadows  deep. 

And  the  day's  humiliation 
Found  oblivion  in  sleep. 

Then  a voice  cried,  “Rise,  0 master  2 
From  the  burning  brand  of  oak 


TEGN^E’S  DEAPA. 


133 


Shape  the  thoaght  that  stirs  within 
thee  ! ” 

And  the  startled  artist  woke,  — 

Woke,  and  from  the  smoking  embers 
Seized  and  quenched  the  glowing 
wood  ; 

And  therefrom  he  carved  an  image, 

And  he  saw  that  it  was  good. 

O thou  sculptor,  painter,  poet  ! 

Take  this  lesson  to  thy  heart : 

That  is  best  which  lieth  nearest ; 

Shape  from  that  thy  work  of  art. 


PEGASUS  IN'  POUND. 

Once  into  a quiet  village, 

Without  haste  and  without  heed, 

In  the  golden  prime  of  morning, 

Strayed  the  poet’s  winged  steed. 

It  was  Autumn,  and  incessant 

Piped  the  quails  from  shocks  and 
sheaves, 

And,  like  living  coals,  the  apples 
Burned  among  the  withering  leaves. 

Loud  the  clamorous  bell  was  ringing 
From  its  belfry  gaunt  and  grim  ; 

’T  was  the  daily  call  to  labor, 

Not  a triumph  meant  for  him. 

Not  the  less  he  saw  the  landscape, 

In  its  gleaming  vapor  veiled  ; 

Not  the  less  he  breathed  the  odors 
That  the  dying  leaves  exhaled. 

Thus,  upon  the  village  common, 

By  the  school- boys  he  was  found  ; 

And  the  wise  men,  in  their  wisdom, 

Put  him  straightway  into  pound. 

Then  the  sombre  village  crier, 

Ringing  loud  his  brazen  bell, 

Wandered  down  the  street  proclaiming 
There  was  an  estray  to  sell. 

And  the  curious  country  people, 

Rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old, 

Came  in  haste  to  see  this  wondrous 
Winged  steed,  with  mane  of  gold. 

Thus  the  day  passed,  and  the  evening 
Fell,  with  vapors  cold  and  dim  ; 

But  it  brought  no  food  nor  shelter, 
Brought  no  straw  nor  stall,  for  him. 


Patiently,  and  still  expectant, 

Looked  he  through  the  wooden  bars, 
Saw  the  moon  rise  o’er  the  landscape, 
Saw  the  tranquil,  patient  stars  ; 

Till  at  length  the  bell  at  midnight 
Sounded  from  its  dark  abode, 

And,  from  out  a neighboring  farm-yard 
Loud  the  cock  Alectryon  crowed. 

Then,  with  nostrils  wide  distended, 
Breaking  from  his  iron  chain, 

And  unfolding  far  his  pinions, 

To  those  stars  he  soared  again. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  village 
Woke  to  all  its  toil  and  care, 

Lo  ! the  strange  steed  had  departed, 
And  they  knew  not  when  nor  where. 

But  they  found,  upon  the  greensward 
Where  his  struggling  hoofs  had  trod, 
Pure  and  bright,  a fountain  flowing 
From  the  hoof-marks  in  the  sod. 

From  that  hour,  the  fount  unfailing 
Gladdens  the  whole  region  round, 
Strengthening  all  who  drink  its  waters, 
While  it  soothes  them  with  its  sound. 


TEGNER’S  DRAPA. 

I he  Alii)  a voice,  that  cried, 

“ Balder  the  Beautiful 
Is  dead,  is  dead  ! ” 

And  through  the  misty  air 
Passed  like  the  mournful  cry 
Of  sunward  sailing  cranes. 

I saw  the  pallid  corpse 
Of  the  dead  sun 

Borne  through  the  Northern  sky. 
Blasts  from  Niffelheim 
Lifted  the  sheeted  mists 
Around  him  as  he  passed. 

And  the  voice  forever  cried, 

“ Balder  the  Beautiful 
Is  dead,  is  dead  ! ” 

And  died  away 
Through  the  dreary  night. 

In  accents  of  despair. 

Balder  the  Beautiful, 

God  of  the  summer  sun, 

Fairest  of  all  the  Gods  ! 

Light  from  his  forehead  beamed. 


134 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


Runes  were  upon  his  tongue, 

As  on  the  warrior’s  sword. 

All  things  in  earth  and  air 
Bound  were  by  magic  spell 
Never  to  do  him  harm  ; 

Even  the  plants  and  stones  ; 

All  save  the  mistletoe, 

The  sacred  mistletoe  ! 

Hoeder,  the  blind  old  God, 

Whose  feet  are  shod  with  silence, 
Pierced  through  that  gentle  breast 
With  his  sharp  spear,  by  fraud 
Made  of  the  mistletoe, 

The  accursed  mistletoe  ! 

They  laid  him  in  his  ship, 

With  horse  and  harness, 

As  on  a funeral  pyre. 

Odin  placed 
A ring  upon  his  finger, 

And  whispered  in  his  ear. 

They  launched  the  burning  ship  ! 
It  floated  far  away 
Over  the  misty  sea, 

Till  like  the  sun  it  seemed, 
Sinking  beneath  the  waves. 

Balder  returned  no  more  ! 

So  perish  the  old  Gods  ! 

But  out  of  the  sea  of  Time 
Rises  a new  land  of  song, 

Fairer  than  the  old. 

Over  its  meadows  green 
Walk  the  young  bards  and  sing. 

Build  it  again, 

O ye  bards, 

Fairer  than  before  ! 

Ye  fathers  of  the  new  race, 

Feed  upon  morning  dew, 

Sing  the  new  Song  of  Love  ! 

The  law  of  force  is  dead  ! 

The  law  of  love  prevails  ! 

Thor,  the  thunderer, 

Shall  rule  the  earth  no  more, 

No  more,  with  threats, 

Challenge  the  meek  Christ. 

Sing  no  more, 

O ye  bards  of  the  North, 

Of  Vikings  and  of  Jarls  ! 

Of  the  days  of  Eld 
Preserve  the  freedom  only, 

Not  the  deeds  of  blood  ! 


SONNET. 

ON  MRS.  KEMBLE’S  READINGS  FROM 
SHAKESPEARE. 

0 precious  evenings  ! all  too  swiftly 
sped  ! 

Leaving  us  heirs  to  amplest  heritages 

Of  all  the  best  thoughts  of  the  greatest 
sages, 

And  giving  tongues  unto  the  silent 
dead  ! 

How  our  hearts  glowed  and  trembled  as 
she  read, 

Interpreting  by  tones  the  wondrous 
pages 

Of  the  great  poet  who  foreruns  the 
ages, 

Anticipating  all  that  shall  be  said  ! 

0 happy  Reader  ! havii)  Lor  thy  text 

The  magic  book,  whose  Sibylline 
leaves  have  caught 

The  rarest  essence  of  all  human 
thought ! 

0 happy  Poet  ! by  no  critic  vext  ! 

How  must  thy  listening  spirit  now 
rejoice 

To  be  interpreted  by  such  a voice  ! 


THE  SINGERS. 

God  sent  his  Singers  upon  earth 
With  songs  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 
That  they  might  touch  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  bring  them  back  to  heaven  again. 

The  first,  a youth,  with  soul  of  fire, 
Held  in  his  hand  a golden  lyre  ; 
Through  groves  he  wandered,  and  by 
streams, 

Playing  the  music  of  our  dreams. 

The  second,  with  a bearded  face, 

Stood  singing  in  the  market-place, 

And  stirred  wTith  accents  deep  and  loud 
The  hearts  of  all  the  listening  crowd. 

A gray  old  man,  the  third  and  last, 

Sang  in  cathedrals  dim  and  vast, 

While  the  majestic  organ  rolled 
Contrition  from  its  mouths  of  gold. 

And  those  who  heard  the  Singers  three 
Disputed  which  the  best  might  be  ; 

For  still  their  music  seemed  to  start 
Discordant  echoes  in  each  heart. 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILL^. 


135 


Bat  the  great  Master  said,  * ‘ I see 
No  best  in  kind,  but  in  degree  ; 

I gave  a various  gift  to  each, 

To  charm,  to  strengthen,  and  to  teach. 

“ These  are  the  three  great  chords  of 
might, 

And  he  whose  ear  is  tuned  aright 
Will  hear  no  discord  in  the  three, 

But  the  most  perfect  harmony.” 


SUSPIRIA. 

Take  them,  0 Death  ! and  bear  away 
Whatever  thou  canst  call  thine  own  ! 
Thine  image,  stamped  upon  this  clay, 
Doth  give  thee  that,  but  that  alone  ! 

Take  them,  0 Grave  ! and  let  them  lie 
Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves, 

As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by, 

And  precious  only  to  ourselves  ! 

Take  them,  0 great  Eternity  ! 

Our  little  life  is  but  a gust 
That  bends  the  branches  of  thy  tree, 
And  trails  its  blossoms  in  the  d ust  ! 


HYMN 

FOR  MY  BROTHER’S  ORDINATION. 

Christ  to  the  young  man  said:  “Yet 
one  thing  more : 

If  thou  worddst  perfect  be, 

Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  it  to  the  poor, 
And  come  and  follow  me  ! ” 

Within  this  temple  Christ  again,  unseen, 
Those  sacred  words  hath  said, 

And  his  invisible  hands  to-day  have  been 
Laid  on  a young  man’s  head. 

And  evermore  beside  him  on  his  way 
The  unseen  Christ  shall  move, 

That  he  may  lean  upon  his  arm  and  say, 
“ Dost  thou,  dear  Lord,  approve  ?” 

Beside  him  at  the  marriage  feast  shall  be, 
To  make  the  scene  more  fair  ; 

Beside  him  in  the  dark  Gethsemane 
Of  pain  and  midnight  prayer. 

0 holy  trust  ! 0 endless  sense  of  rest ! 
Like  the  beloved  John 

To  lay  his  head  upon  the  Saviour’s  breast. 
And  thus  to  journey  on  ! 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTllL-CUILLE. 


FROM  THE  GASCON  OF  JASMIN. 


Only  the  Lowland  tongue  of  Scotland  might 
Rehearse  this  little  tragedy  aright ; 

Let  me  attempt  it  with  an  English  quill ; 
And  take.  0 Reader,  for  the  deed  the  will. 


I. 

At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  height 

Where  is  perched  Castel-Cuille, 

When  the  apple,  the  plum,  and  the  al- 
mond tree 

In  the  plain  below  were  growing 
white, 

This  is  the  song  one  might  perceive 

On  a Wednesday  morn  of  Saint  Joseph’s 
Eve: 

“ The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads 
should  bloom, 

So  fair  a bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 

Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands 


This  old  Te  Deum,  rustic  rites  attending, 
Seemed  from  the  clouds  descending  ; 
When  lo  ! a merry  company 
Of  rosy  village  girls,  clean  as  the  eye, 
Each  one  with  her  attendant  swain, 
Came  to  the  cliff,  all  singing  the  same 
strain  ; 

Resembling  there,  so  near  unto  the  sky, 
Rejoicing  angels,  that  kind  Heaven  has 
sent 

For  their  delight  and  our  encourage- 
ment. 

Together  blending, 

And  soon  descending 
The  narrow  sweep 
Of  the  hillside  steep, 

They  wind  aslant 
Towards  Saint  Amant, 


136 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


Through  leafy  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys 
With  merry  sallies 
Singing  their  chant : 

“The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads 
should  bloom, 

So  fair  a bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands. 

gay, 

So  fair  a bride  shall  pass  to-day  ! ” 

It  is  Baptiste,  and  his  affianced  maiden, 
With  garlands  for  the  bridal  laden  ! 


Baptiste  stands  sighing,  with  silent 
tongue  ? 

And  yet  the  bride  is  fair  and  young  ! 

Is  it  Saint  Joseph  would  say  to  us  all, 

That  love,  o’er-hasty,  precedeth  a fall  ? 
O no  ! for  a maiden  frail,  1 trow, 
Never  bore  so  lofty  a brow  ! 

What  lovers  ! they  give  not  a single 
caress  ! « 

TV  see  them  so  careless  and  cold  to-day, 
These  are  grand  people,  one  would 
say. 

What  ails  Baptiste  ? what  grief  doth  him 
oppress  ? 


The  sky  was  blue  ; without  one  cloud  of 
gloom, 

The  sun  of  March  wras  shining  brightly, 
And  to  the  air  the  freshening  wind  gave 
lightly 

Its  breathings  of  perfume. 

When  one  beholds  the  dusky  hedges 
blossom, 

A rustic  bridal,  ah  ! how7  sweet  it  is  ! 

To  sounds  of  joyous  melodies, 

That  touch  with  tenderness  the  trem- 
bling bosom, 

A band  of  maidens 
Gayly  frolicking, 

A band  of  youngsters 
Wildly  rollicking  ! 

Kissing, 

Caressing,  , 

With  fingers  pressing, 

Till  in  the  veriest 
Madness  of  mirth,  as  they  dance, 
They  retreat  and  advance, 

Trying  whose  laugh  shall  be  loud- 
est and  merriest ; 

While  the  bride,  with  roguish  eyes, 
Sporting  with  them,  now  escapes  and 
cries : 

“Those  who  catch  me 
Married  verily 
This  year  shall  be  ! ” 

And  all  pursue  with  eager  haste, 

And  all  attain  what  they  pursue, 
And  touch  her  pretty  apron  fresh  and  new, 
And  the  linen  kirtle  round  her  waist. 

Meanwhile,  whence  comes  it  that 
among 

These  youthful  maidens  fresh  and 
fair, 

So  joyous,  w7ith  such  laughing  air, 


It  is,  that,  half-way  up  the  hill, 

In  yon  cottage,  by  w’hose  w alls 
Stand  the  cart-house  and  the  stalls, 
Dwrelleth  the  blind  orphan  still, 
Daughter  of  a veteran  old  ; 

And  you  must  know,  one  year  ago, 
That  Margaret,  the  young  and  ten- 
der, 

Was  the  village  pride  and  splendor, 
And  Baptiste  her  lover  bold. 

Love,  the  deceiver,  them  ensnared  ; 
For  them  the  altar  w7as  prepared  ; 
But  alas  ! the  summer’s  blight, 

The  dread  disease  that  none  can  stay, 
The  pestilence  that  walks  by  night, 
Took  the  young  bride’s  sight  away. 

All  at  the  father’s  stern  command  wTas 
changed  ; 

Their  peace  was  gone,  but  not  their  love 
estranged. 

Wearied  at  home,  erelong  the  lover  fled  ; 
Returned  but  three  short  days  ago, 
The  golden  chain  they  round  him 
throw, 

He  is  enticed,  and  onward  led 
To  marry  Angela,  and  yet 
Is  thinking  ever  of  Margaret. 

Then  suddenly  a maiden  cried, 

* ‘ Anna,  Theresa,  Mary,  Kate  ! 

Here  comes  the  cripple  Jane  ! ” And  by 
a fountain’s  side 

A woman,  bent  and  gray  with  years, 
Under  the  mulberry-trees  appears, 
And  all  towards  her  run,  as  fleet 
As  had  they  wings  upon  their  feet. 

It  is  that  Jane,  the  cripple  Jane, 

Is  a soothsayer,  wary  and  kind. 

She  telleth  fortunes,  and  none  complain. 
She  promises  one  a village  swain, 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLiL 


137 


Another  a happy  wedding-day, 

And  the  bride  a lovely  boy  straight- 
way. 

All  comes  to  pass  as  she  avers  ; 

She  never  deceives,  she  never  errs. 

But  for  this  once  the  village  seer 
Wears  a countenance  severe, 

And  from  beneath  her  eyebrows  thin  and 
white 

Her  two  eyes  flash  like  cannons 
bright 

Aimed  at  the  bridegroom  in  waist- 
coat blue, 

Who,  like  a statue,  stands  in  view  ; 
Changing  color,  as  well  he  might, 
When  the  beldame  wrinkled  and 
g^y 

Takes  the  young  bride  by  the  hand. 
And,  with  the  tip  of  her  reedy  wand 
Making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  doth 
say  : — 

‘ ‘ Thoughtless  Angela,  beware  ! 
Lest,  when  thou  weddest  this  false 
bridegroom, 

Thou  diggest  for  thyself  a tomb  ! ” 

And  she  was  silent ; and  the  maidens  fair 

Saw  fr  >m  each  eye  escape  a swollen  tear  ; 

But  on  a little  streamlet  silver-clear, 

What  are  two  drops  of  turbid  rain  ? 
Saddened  a moment,  the  bridal  train 
Resumed  the  dance  and  song  again  ; 

The  bridegroom  only  was  pale  with 
fear  ; — 

And  down  green  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys, 

With  merry  sallies, 

They  sang  the  refrain  : — 

“The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads 
should  bloom, 

So  fair  a bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 

Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands 

gay> 

So  fair  a bride  shall  pass  to-day  ! ” 


II. 

And  by  suffering  worn  and  weary, 

But  beautiful  as  some  fair  angel  yet, 

Thus  lamented  Margaret, 

In  her  cottage  lone  and  dreary  : — 

“ He  has  arrived  ! arrived  at  last ! 
Yet  Jane  has  named  him  not  these  three 
days  past ; J 


Arrived  ! yet  keeps  aloof  so  far  ! 

And  knows  that  of  my  night  he  is  the 
star  J 

Knows  that  long  months  I wait  alone, 
benighted, 

And  count  the  moments  since  he  went 
away  i 

Come  1 keep  the  promise  of  that  happier 
day, 

That  I may  keep  the  faith  to  thee  I 
plighted  ! 

What  joy  have  I without  thee  ? what 
delight  ? 

Grief  wastes  my  life,  and  makes  it  mis- 
ery  ; 

Day  for  the  others  ever,  but  for  me 

Forever  night  ! forever  night  ! 

When  he  is  gone  ’t  is  dark  ! my  soul  is 
sad  ! 

I suffer  ! O my  God  ! come,  make  me 
glad. 

When  he  is  near,  no  thoughts  of  day  in- 
trude ; 

Day  has  blue  heavens,  but  Baptiste  has 
blue  eyes  ! 

Within  them  shines  for  me  a heaven  of 
love, 

A heaven  all  happiness,  like  that  above, 

No  more  of  grief  ! no  more  of  lassi- 
tude ! 

Earth  I forget,  — and  heaven,  and  all 
distresses, 

When  seated  by  my  side  my  hand  he 
presses ; 

But  -when  alone,  remember  all ! 

Where  is  Baptiste  ? lie  hears  not  when  I 
call ! 

A branch  of  ivy,  dying  on  the  ground, 

I need  some  bough  to  twine  around  ! 

In  pity  come  ! be  to  my  suffering  kind  ! 

True  love,  they  say,  in  grief  doth  more 
abound  ! 

What  then  — when  one  is  blind  ? 

“Who  knows?  perhaps  I am  for- 
saken ! 

Ah  ! woe  is  me  ! then  bear  me  to  my 
grave  ! 

0 God  ! what  thoughts  within  me 
waken  ! 

Away  ! he  will  return  ! I do  but  rave  ! 

He  will  return  ! I need  not  fear  ! 

He  swore  it  by  our  Saviour  dear  ; 

He  could  not  come  at  his  own  will ; 

Is  weary,  or  perhaps  is  ill  ! 

Perhaps  his  heart,  in  this  disguise, 

I Prepares  for  me  some  sweet  surprise ! 


138 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


But  some  one  comes  ! Though  blind, 
my  heart  can  see  ! 

And  that  deceives  me  not ! ’t  is  he  ! ’t  is 
he  ! ” 

And  the  door  ajar  is  set, 

And  poor,  confiding  Margaret 

Rises,  with  outstretched  arms,  but  sight- 
less eyes  ; 

’T  is  only  Paul,  her  brother,  who  thus 
cries  : — 

‘ 4 Angela  the  bride  has  passed  ! 

I saw  the  wedding  guests  go  by  ; 

Tell  me,  my  sister,  why  were  we  not 
asked  ? 

For  all  are  there  but  you  and  I ! ” 

“ Angela  married  ! and  not  send 

To  tell  her  secret  unto  me  ! 

0,  speak  ! who  may  the  bridegroom 
be  ? ” 

“My  sister,  ’t  is  Baptiste,  thy 
friend!  ” 

A cry  the  blind  girl  gave,  but  nothing 
said  ; 

A milky  whiteness  spreads  upon  her 
cheeks  ; 

An  icy  hand,  as  heavy  as  lead, 

Descending,  as  her  brother  speaks. 

Upon  her  heart,  that  has  ceased  to 
beat, 

Suspends  awhile  its  life  and  heat. 

She  stands  beside  the  boy,  now  sore  dis- 
tressed, - 

A wax  Madonna  as  a peasant  dressed. 

At  length,  the  bridal  song  again 

Brings  her  back  to  her  sorrow  and 
pain. 

“Hark  ! the  joyous  airs  are  ring- 
ing ! 

Sister,  dost  thou  hear  them  sing- 
ing ? 

How  merrily  they  laugh  and  jest ! 

Would  we  were  bidden  with  the 
rest  ! 

I would  don  my  hose  of  homespun 
gray, 

And  my  doublet  of  linen  striped 
and  gay  ; 

Perhaps  they  will  come  ; for  they 
do  not  wed 

Till  to-morrow  at  seven  o’clock,  it  is 
said  ! ” 


44 1 know  it  ! ” answered  Margaret ; 

Whom  the  vision,  with  aspect  black  as 

M 

Mastered  again  ; and  its  hand  of  ice 

Held  her  heart  crushed,  as  in  a vice  ! 
“Paul,  be  not  sad!  ’T  is  a holi- 
day; 

To-morrow  put  on  thy  doublet  gay  ! 
But  leave  me  now  for  a while  alone.” 
Away,  with  a hop  and  a jump, 
went  Paul, 

And,  as  he  whistled  along  the  hall. 
Entered  Jane,  the  crippled  crone. 

44  Holy  Virgin  ! what  dreadful  heat ! 
I am  faint,  and  wTeary,  and  out  of 
breath  ! 

But  thou  art  cold,  — art  chill  as 
death ; 

My  little  friend  ! what  ails  thee, 
sweet  ? ” 

44  Nothing  ! I heard  them  singing  home 
the  bride ; 

And,  as  I listened  to  the  song, 

I thought  my  turn  wvould  come 
erelong, 

Thou  knowest  it  is  at  Whitsuntide. 
Thy  cards  forsooth  can  never  lie, 

To  me  such  joy  they  prophesy, 

Thy  skill  shall  be  vaunted  far  and 
wide 

When  they  behold  him  at  my 
side. 

And  poor  Baptiste,  what  sayest 
thou  ? 

It  must  seem  long  to  him  ; — methinks 
I see  him  now  ! ” 

Jane,  shuddering,  her  hand  doth 
press  : 

44  Thy  love  I cannot  all  approve  ; 

We  must  not  trust  too  much  to  happi- 
ness ; — 

Go,  pray  to  God,  that  thou  mayst  love 
him  less  ! ” 

44  The  more  I pray,  the  more  I 
love ! 

It  is  no  sin,  for  God  is  on  my  side  ! ” 

It  was  enough  ; and  Jane  no  more  re- 
plied. 

Now  to  all  hope  her  heart  is  barred  and 
cold  ; 

But  to  deceive  the  beldame  old 
She  takes  a sweet,  contented  air  ; 
Speak  of  foul  weather  or  of  fair, 

At  every  word  the  maiden  smiles  ! 
Thus  the  beguiler  she  beguiles  ; 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLE.  139 


So  that,  departing  at  the  evening’s  close, 
She  says,  “She  may  be  saved  ! she 
nothing  knows  ! ” 

Poor  Jane,  the  cunning  sorceress  ! 
Now  that  thou  wouldst,  thou  art  no 
prophetess  ! 

This  morning,  in  the  fulness  of  thy  heart, 
Thou  wast  so,  far  beyond  thine  art ! 


III. 

Now  rings  the  bell,  nine  times  reverber- 
ating, 

And  the  white  daybreak,  stealing  up  the 

sky, 

Sees  in  two  cottages  two  maidens  wait- 
ing, 

How  differently  ! 

Queen  of  a day,  by  flatterers  caressed, 

The  one  puts  on  her  cross  and 
crown, 

Decks  with  a huge  bouquet  her 
breast, 

And  flaunting,  fluttering  up  and 
down, 

Looks  at  herself,  and  cannot  rest. 

The  other,  blind,  within  her  little 
room, 

Has  neither  crown  nor  flower’s  per- 
fume ; 

But  in  their  stead  for  something  gropes 
apart, 

That  in  a drawer’s  recess  doth  lie. 

And,  ’neath  her  bodice  of  bright  scarlet 
dye, 

Convulsive  clasps  it  to  her  heart. 

The  one,  fantastic,  light  as  air, 

’Mid  kisses  ringing, 

And  joyous  singing, 

Forgets  to  say  her  morning  prayer  ! 

the  other,  with  cold  drops  upon  her 
brow, 

Joins  her  two  hands,  and  kneels  upon 
the  floor, 

And  whispers,  as  her  brother  opes  the 
door, 

“ 0 God  ! forgive  me  now  ! ” 

And  then  the  orphan,  young  and 
blind, 

Conducted  by  her  brother’s  hand. 


Towards  the  church,  through  paths 
unscanned, 

With  tranquil  air,  her  way  doth 
wind. 

Odors  of  laurel,  making  her  faint  and 
pale, 

Round  her  at  times  exhale, 

And  in  the  sky  as  yet  no  sunny  ray, 

But  brumal  vapors  gray. 

Near  that  castle,  fair  to  see. 

Crowded  with  sculptures  old,  in  every 
part, 

Marvels  of  nature  and  of  art, 

And  proud  of  its  name  of  high 
degree, 

A little  chapel,  almost  bare 

At  the  base  of  the  rock,  is  builded 
there  ; 

Ail  glorious  that  it  lifts  aloof, 

Above  each  jealous  cottage  roof, 

Its  sacred  summit,  swept  by  autumn 
gales, 

And  its  blackened  steeple  high  in  air, 

Round  which  the  osprey  screams 
and  sails. 

44  Paul,  lay  thy  noisy  rattle  by  ! ” 

Thus  Margaret  said.  4 4 Where  are  we  ? 
we  ascend  ! ” 

44  Yes  ; seest  thou  not  our  journey’s 
end  ? 

Hearest  not  the  osprey  from  the  belfry 
cry  ? 

The  hideous  bird,  that  brings  ill  luck, 
we  know  ! 

Dost  thou  remember  when  our  father 
said, 

The  night  we  watched  beside  his 
bed, 

4 0 daughter,  I am  weak  and  low  ; 

Take  care  of  Paul ; I feel  that  I am 
dying  ! ’ 

And  thou,  and  he,  and  I,  all  fell  to  cry- 
ing? 

Then  on  the  roof  the  osprey  screamed 
aloud  ; 

And  here  they  brought  our  father  in  his 
shroud. 

There  is  his  grave  ; there  stands  the 
cross  we  set ; 

Why  dost  thou  clasp  me  so,  dear  Mar- 
garet ? 

Come  in  ! The  bride  will  be  here 
soon  : 

Thou  tremblest  ! 0 my  God  ! thou  art 

going  to  swoon  I ” 


140 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


She  could  no  more,  — the  blind  girl, 
weak  and  weary  ! 

A voice  seemed  crying  from  that  grave 
so  dreary, 

* ‘ What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  daugh- 
ter?” — and  she  started, 

And  quick  recoiled,  aghast,  faint- 
hearted ; 

But  Paul,  impatient,  urges  evermore 

Her  steps  towards  the  open  door  ; 

And  when,  beneath  her  feet,  the  un- 
happy maid 

Crushes  the  laurel  near  the  house  im- 
mortal, 

And  with  her  head,  as  Paul  talks  on 
again, 

Touches  the  crown  of  filigrane 

Suspended  from  the  low-arched 
portal, 

N o more  restrained,  no  more  afraid, 

She  walks,  as  for  a feast  arrayed, 

And  in  the  ancient  chapel’s  sombre 
night 

They  both  are  lost  to  sight. 

At  length  the  bell, 

With  booming  sound, 

Sends  forth,  resounding  round, 

Its  hymeneal  peal  o’er  rock  and  down 
the  dell. 

It  is  broad  day,  with  sunshine  and 
with  rain ; 

And  yet  the  guests  delay  not 
long, 

For  soon  arrives  the  bridal  train, 

And  with  it  brings  the  village 
throng. 

In  sooth,  deceit  maketh  no  mortal  gay, 

For  lo  ! Baptiste  on  this  triumphant 
day, 

Mute  as  an  idiot,  sad  as  yester-morning, 

Thinks  only  of  the  beldame’s  words  of 
warning. 

And  Angela  thinks  of  her  cross,  I wis  ; 

To  be  a bride  is  all ! The  pretty  lisper 

Feels  her  heart  swell  to  hear  all  round 
her  whisper, 

“How beautiful  ! how  beautiful  she  is  ! ” 

But  she  must  calm  that  giddy 
head, 

For  already  the  Mass  is  said  ; 

At  the  holy  table  stands  the  priest ; 

The  wedding  ring  is  blessed  ; Baptiste 
receives  it ; 


Ere  on  the  finger  of  the  bride  he  leaver 
it, 

He  must  pronounce  one  word  at 
least  ! 

’T  is  spoken  ; and  sudden  at  the  grooms- 
man’s side 

“ ’T  is  he!”  a well-known  voice  has 
cried. 

And  while  the  wedding  guests  all  hold 
their  breath, 

Opes  the  confessional,  and  the  blind 
girl,  see  ! 

“Baptiste,”  she  said,  “since  thou  hast 
wished  my  death, 

As  holy  water  be  my  blood  for  thee  ! ” 

And  calmly  in  the  air  a knife  suspended  ! 

Doubtless  her  guardian  angel  near  at- 
tended, 

For  anguish  did  its  work  so  well, 
That,  ere  the  fatal  stroke  descended, 
Lifeless  she  fell ! 

At  eve,  instead  of  bridal  verse, 

The  De  Profundis  filled  the  air  ; 
Decked  with  flowers  a simple  hearse 
To  the  churchyard  forth  they  bear  ; 
Village  girls  in  robes  of  snow 
Follow,  weeping  as  they  go  ; 
Nowhere  was  a smile  that  day, 

No,  ah  no  ! for  each  one  seemed  to 
say : — 

“ The  Toad  should  mourn  and  be  veiled 
in  gloom, 

So  fair  a corpse  shall  leave  its  home  ! 

Should  mourn  and  should  weep,  ah, 
well-away  ! 

So  fait  a corpse  shall  pass  to-day  ! ” 


A CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

FROM  THE  NOEI  BOURGUIGNON  DE  GUI 
BAROZAI. 

I hear  along  our  street 
Pass  the  minstrel  throngs  ; 

Hark  ! they  play  so  sweet, 

On  their  hautboys,  Christmas  songs  ! 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

In  December  ring 
Every  day  the  chimes; 

Loud  the  gleemen  sing 
In  the  streets  their  merry  rhymes. 


INTRODUCTION. 


141 


Let  us  by  the  tire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Shepherds  at  the  grange, 
Where  the  Babe  was  born, 
Sang,  with  many  a change, 
Christmas  carols  until  morn. 

Let  us  by  the  lire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

These  good  people  sang 
Songs  devout  and  sweet ; 
While  the  rafters  rang, 

There  they  stood  with  freezing  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Nuns  in  frigid  cells 
At  this  holy  tide, 


For  want  of  something  else, 
Christmas  songs  at  times  have  tried. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire ! 

Washerwomen  old, 

To  the  sound  they  beat, 

Sing  by  rivers  cold, 

With  uncovered  heads  and  feet. 

Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Who  by  the  fireside  stands 
Stamps  his  feet  and  sings  ; 

But  he  who  blows  his  hands 
Not  so  gay  a carol  brings. 

Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


INTRODUCTION. 

Should  you  ask  me,  whence  these  sto- 
ries ? 

Whence  these  legends  and  traditions, 
With  the  odors  of  the  forest, 

With  the  dew  and  damp  of  meadows, 
With  the  curling  smoke  of  wigwams, 
With  the  rushing  of  great  rivers, 

With  their  frequent  repetitions, 

And  their  wild  reverberations, 

As  of  thunder  in  the  mountains  ? 

I should  answer,  I should  tell  you, 

‘ * From  the  forests  and  the  prairies, 
From  the  great  lakes  of  the  Northland, 
From  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 

From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

From  the  mountains,  moors,  and  fen- 
lands, 

Where  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Feeds  among  the  reeds  and  rushes. 

I repeat  them  as  I heard  them 
From  the  lips  of  Nawadaha, 

The  musician,  the  sweet  singer.” 

Should  you  ask  where  Nawadaha 
Found  these  songs,  so  wild  and  wayward, 
Found  these  legends  and  traditions, 


I should  answer,  I should  tell  you, 

“ In  the  bird’s-nests  of  the  forest, 

In  the  lodges  of  the  beaver, 

In  the  hoof-prints  of  the  bison, 

In  the  eyry  of  the  eagle  ! 

“ All  the  wild-fowl  sang  them  to  him, 
In  the  moorlands  and  the  fen-lands, 

In  the  melancholy  marshes  ; 

Chetowaik,  the  plover,  sang  them, 
Mahng,  the  loon,  the  wild-goose,  Wawa, 
The  blue  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And  the  grouse,  the  Muslikodasa  ! ” 

If  still  further  you  should  ask  me, 
Saying,  “ Who  was  Nawadaha  ? 

Tell  us  of  this  Nawadaha,” 

I should  answer  your  inquiries 
Straightway  in  such  words  as  follow. 

“In  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha, 

In  the  green  and  silent  valley, 

By  the  pleasant  water- courses, 

Dwelt  the  singer  Nawadaha. 

Round  about  the  Indian  village 
Spread  the  meadows  and  the  corn-fields. 
And  beyond  them  stood  the  forest, 
Stood  the  groves  of  singing  pine-trees, 
Green  in  Summer,  white  in  Winter, 
Ever  sighing,  ever  singing. 


142 


THK  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


“ And  the  pleasant  water-courses, 

You  could  trace  them  through  the  valley, 
By  the  rushing  in  the  Spring-time, 

By  the  alders  in  the  Summer, 

By  the  white  fog  in  the  Autumn, 

By  the  black- line  in  the  Winter  ; 

And  beside  them  dwelt  the  singer, 

In  the  vale  of  Tawasentlia, 

In  the  green  and  silent  valley. 

“ There  he  sang  of  Hiawatha, 

Sang  the  Song  of  Hiawatha, 

Sang  his  wondrous  birth  and  being, 

How  he  prayed  and  how  he  fasted, 

How  he  lived,  and  toiled,  and  suffered, 
That  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper, 
That  he  might  advance  his  people  ! ” 

Ye  who  love  the  haunts  of  Nature, 
Love  the  sunshine  of  the  meadow, 

Love  the  shadow  of  the  forest, 

Love  the  wind  among  the  branches, 

And  the  rain-shower  and  the  snow-storm, 
And  the  rushing  of  great  rivers 
Through  their  palisades  of  pine-trees, 
And  the  thunder  in  the  mountains, 
Whose  innumerable  echoes 
Flap  like  eagles  in  their  eyries  ; — 
Listen  to  these  wild  traditions, 

To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye  who  love  a nation’s  legends, 

Love  the  ballads  of  a people, 

That  like  voices  from  afar  off 
Call  to  us  to  pause  and  listen, 

Speak  in  tones  so  plain  and  childlike, 
Scarcely  can  the  ear  distinguish 
Whether  they  are  sung  or  spoken  ; — 
Listen  to  this  Indian  Legend, 

To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye  whose  hearts  are  fresh  and  simple, 
Who  have  faith  in  God  and  Nature, 
Who  believe,  that  in  all  ages 
Every  human  heart  is  human, 

That  in  even  savage  bosoms 

There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings 

For  the  good  they  comprehend  not, 

That  the  feeble  hands  and  helpless, 
Groping  blindly  in  the  darkness, 

Touch  God’s  right  hand  in  that  darkness 
And  are  lifted  up  and  strengthened  ; — 
Listen  to  this  simple  story, 

To  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 

Ye,  who  sometimes,  in  your  rambles 
Through  the  green  lanes  of  the  country, 
Where  the  tangled  barberry-bushes 
Hang  their  tufts  of  crimson  berries 
Over  stone  walls  gray  with  mosses, 

Pause  by  some  neglected  graveyard, 

For  a while  to  muse,  and  ponder 


On  a half-effaced  inscription, 

Written  with  little  skill  of  song-craft, 
Homely  phrases,  but  each-  letter 
Full  of  hope  and  yet  of  heart-break, 
Full  of  all  the  tender  pathos 
Of  the  Here  and  the  Hereafter  ; — 
Stay  and  read  this  rude  inscription, 
Read  this  Song  of  Hiawatha  ! 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 

I. 

THE  PEACE-PIPE. 

On  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 

On  the  great  Red  Pipe-stone  Quarry, 
Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 

He  the  Master  of  Life,  descending, 

On  the  red  crags  of  the  quarry 
Stood  erect,  and  called  the  nations, 
Called  the  tribes  of  men  together. 

From  his  footprints  flowed  a river, 
Leaped  into  the  light  of  morning, 

O’er  the  precipice  plunging  downward 
Gleamed  like  Ishkoodah,  the  comet. 
And  the  Spirit,  stooping  earthward, 
With  his  finger  on  the  meadow 
Traced  a winding  pathway  for  it, 
Saying  to  it,  “ Run  in  this  way  ! ” 
From  the  red  stone  of  the  quarry 
With  his  hand  he  broke  a fragment, 
Moulded  it  into  a pipe-head, 

Shaped  and  fashioned  it  with  figures  ; 
From  the  margin  of  the  river 
Took  a long  reed  for  a pipe-stem, 
With  its  dark  green  leaves  upon  it  ; 
Filled  the  pipe  with  bark  of  willow, 
With  the  bark  of  the  red  willow  ; 
Breathed  upon  the  neighboring  forest, 
Made  its  great  boughs  chafe  together, 
Till  in  flame  they  burst  and  kindled  ; 
And  erect  upon  the  mountains, 

Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 

Smoked  the  calumet,  the  Peace-Pipe, 
As  a signal  to  the  nations. 

And  the  smoke  rose  slowly,  slowly, 
Through  the  tranquil  air  of  morning, 
First  a single  line  of  darkness, 

Then  a denser,  bluer  vapor, 

Then  a snow-white  cloud  unfolding, 
Like  the  tree-tops  of  the  forest, 

Ever  rising,  rising,  rising, 

Till  it  touched  the  top  of  heaven, 

Till  it  broke  against  the  heaven, 

And  rolled  outward  all  around  it. 
From  the  Yale  of  Tawasentlia, 


THE  PEACE-PIPE. 


143 


From  tlie  Valley  of  Wyoming, 

From  the  groves  of  Tuscaloosa, 

From  the  far-off  Rocky  Mountains, 

From  the  Northern  lakes  and  rivers 
All  the  tribes  beheld  the  signal, 

Saw  the  distant  smoke  ascending, 

The  Pukwana  of  the  Peace-Pipe. 

And  the  Prophets  of  the  nations 
Said  : “ Behold  it,  the  Pukwana  ! 

By  this  signal  from  afar  off, 

Bending  like  a wand  of  willow, 

Waving  like  a hand  that  beckons, 

Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 

Calls  the  tribes  of  men  together, 

Calls  the  warriors  to  his  council  ! ” 

Down  the  rivers,  o’er  the  prairies, 
Came  the  warriors  of  the  nations, 

Came  the  Delawares  and  Mohawks, 

Came  the  Choctaws  and  Camanches, 
Came  the  Shoshonies  and  Blackfeet, 
Came  the  Pawnees  and  Omahas, 

Came  the  Mandans  and  Dacotahs, 

Came  the  Hurons  and  Ojibways, 

All  the  warriors  drawn  together 
By  the  signal  of  the  Peace-Pipe, 

To  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 

To  the  great  Red  Pipe-stone  Quarry. 

And  they  stood  there  on  the  meadow, 
With  their  weapons  and  their  war-gear, 
Painted  like  the  leaves  of  Autumn, 
Painted  like  the  sky  of  morning, 

Wildly  glaring  at  each  other  ; 

In  their  faces  stern  defiance, 

In  their  hearts  the  feuds  of  ages, 

The  hereditary  hatred, 

The  ancestral  thirst  of  vengeance. 

Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 

The  creator  of  the  nations, 

Looked  upon  them  with  compassion, 
With  paternal  love  and  pity  ; 

Looked  upon  their  wrath  and  wrangling 
But  as  quarrels  among  children, 

But  as  feuds  and  fights  of  children  ! 

Over  them  he  stretched  his  right  hand, 
To  subdue  their  stubborn  natures, 

To  allay  their  thirst  and  fever, 

By  the  shadow  of  his  right  hand  ; 

Spake  to  them  with  voice  majestic 
As  the  sound  of  far-off  waters, 

Falling  into  deep  abysses, 

Warning,  chiding,  spake  in  this  wise  : — 

“ 0 my  children  ! my  poor  children  ! 
Listen  to  the  words  of  wisdom, 

Listen  to  the  words  of  warning. 

From  the  lips  of  the  Great  Spirit, 

F rom  the  Master  of  Life,  who  made  you 

“ I have  given  you  lands  to  hunt  in, 


1 have  given  you  streams  to  fish  in, 

I have  given  you  bear  and  bison, 

I have  given  you  roe  and  reindeer, 

I have  given  you  brant  and  beaver, 
Filled  the  marshes  full  of  wild-fowl, 
Filled  the  rivers  full  of  hshes  ; 

Why  then  are  you  not  contented  ? 

Why  then  will  you  hunt  each  other  ? 

“I  am  weary  of  your  quarrels, 

Weary  of  your  wars  and  bloodshed. 
Weary  of  your  prayers  for  vengeance, 

Of  your  wranglings  and  dissensions  ; 

All  your  strength  is  in  your  union, 

All  your  danger  is  in  discord  ; 

Therefore  be  at  peace  henceforward, 

And  as  brothers  live  together. 

‘ ‘ I will  send  a Prophet  to  you, 

A Deliverer  of  the  nations, 

Who  shall  guide  you  and  shall  teach  you, 
Who  shall  toil  and  suffer  with  you. 

If  you  listen  to  his  counsels, 

You  will  multiply  and  prosper  ; 

If  his  warnings  pass  unheeded, 

You  will  fade  away  and  perish  ! 

“ Bathe  now  in  the  stream  before  you, 
Wash  the  war-paint  from  your  faces, 
Wash  the  blood-stains  from  your  fingers, 
Bury  your  war-clubs  and  your  weapons, 
Break  the  red  stone  from  this  quarry, 
Mould  and  make  it  into  Peace-Pipes, 
Take  the  reeds  that  grow  beside  you, 
Deck  them  with  your  brightest  feathers, 
Smoke  the  calumet  together, 

And  as  brothers  live  henceforward  ! ” 
Then  upon  the  ground  the  warriors 
Threw  their  cloaks  and  shirts  of  deer- 
skin, 

' Threw  their  weapons  and  their  war-gear, 
Leaped  into  the  rushing  river, 

Washed  the  war-paint  from  their  faces. 
Clear  above  them  flowed  the  water, 
Clear  and  limpid  from  the  footprints 
Of  the  Master  of  Life  descending  ; 

Dark  below  them  flowed  the  water, 
Soiled  and  stained  with  streaks  of  crim- 
son, 

As  if  blood  were  mingled  with  it  ! 

From  the  river  came  the  warriors, 
Clean  and  washed  from  all  their  war- 
paint ; 

On  the  banks  their  clubs  they  buried, 
Buried  all  their  warlike  weapons. 

Gitche  Manito,  the  mighty, 

The  Great  Spirit,  the  creator, 

Smiled  upon  his  helpless  children  ! 

And  in  silence  all  the  warriors 
Broke  the  red  stone  of  the  quarry, 


144  THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Smoothed  and  formed  it  into  Peace- 
Pipes, 

P>roke  the  long  reeds  by  the  river, 
Decked  them  with  their  brightest  feath- 
ers, 

And  departed  each  one  homeward, 
"While  the  Master  of  Life,  ascending, 
Through  the  opening  of  cloud-curtains, 
Through  the  doorways  of  the  heaven, 
Vanished  from  before  their  faces, 

In  the  smoke  that  rolled  around  him, 
The  Pukwana  of  the  Peace-Pipe  ! 


II. 

THE  POUR  WINDS. 

“ Honor  be  to  Mudjekeewis  ! ” 

Cried  the  warriors,  cried  the  old  men, 
When  he  came  in  triumph  homeward 
With  the  sacred  Belt  of  Wampum, 
From  the  regions  of  the  North- Wind, 
From  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 

From  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit. 

He  had  stolen  the  Belt  of  Wampum 
From  the  neck  of  Mishe-Mokwa, 

From  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains, 
From  the  terror  of  the  nations, 

As  he  lay  asleep  and  cumbrous 
On  the  summit  of  the  mountains, 

Like  a rock  with  mosses  on  it, 

Spotted  brown  and  gray  with  mosses. 

Silently  he  stole  upon  him, 

Till  the  red  nails  of  the  monster 
Almost  touched  him,  almost  scared  him, 
Till  the  hot  breath  of  his  nostrils 
Warmed  the  hands  of  Mudjekeewis, 

As  he  drew  the  Belt  of  Wampum 
Over  the  round  ears,  that  heard  not, 
Over  the  small  eyes,  that  saw  not, 

Over  the  long  nose  and  nostrils, 

The  black  muffle  of  the  nostrils, 

Out  of  which  the  heavy  breathing 
Warmed  the  hands  of  Mudjekeewis. 

Then  he  swung  aloft  his  war-club, 
Shouted  loud  and  long  his  war-cry, 
Smote  the  mighty  Mishe-Mokwa 
In  the  middle  of  the  forehead, 

Right  between  the  eyes  he  smote  him. 

With  the  heavy  blow  bewildered, 

Rose  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains  ; 
But  his  knees  beneath  him  trembled, 
And  he  whimpered  like  a woman, 

As  he  reeled  and  staggered  forward, 

As  he  sat  upon  his  haunches  ; 

And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis, 


Standing  fearlessly  before  him. 

Taunted  him  in  loud  derision, 

Spake  disdainfully  in  this  wise  : — 

4 ‘ Hark  you,  Bear  ! you  are  a coward, 
And  no  Brave,  as  you  pretended  ; 

Else  you  would  not  cry  and  whimper 
Like  a miserable  woman  ! 

Bear  ! you  know  our  tribes  are  hostile, 
Long  have  been  at  war  together ; 

Now  you  find  that  we  are  strongest, 

You  go  sneaking  in  the  forest, 

You  go  hiding  in  the  mountains  ! 

Had  you  conquered  me  in  battle 
Not  a groan  would  I have  uttered ; 

But  you,  Bear!  sit  here  and  whimper, 
And  disgrace  your  tribe  by  crying, 

Like  a wretched  Shaugodaya, 

Like  a cowardly  old  woman  ! ” 

Then  again  he  raised  his  war-club, 
Smote  again  the  Mishe-Mokwa 
In  the  middle  of  his  forehead, 

Broke  his  skull,  as  ice  is  broken 
When  one  goes  to  fish  in  Winter. 

Thus  was  slain  the  Mishe-Mokwa, 

He  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains, 

He  the  terror  of  the  nations. 

“ Honor  be  to  Mudjekeewis  ! ” 

With  a shout  exclaimed  the  people, 

4 4 Honor  be  to  Mudjekeewis  ! 
Henceforth  he  shall  be  the  West-Wmd, 
And  hereafter  and  forever 
Shall  he  hold  supreme  dominion 
Over  all  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Call  him  no  more  Mudjekeewis, 

Call  him  Kabeyun,  the  West-Wind  ! ” 
Thus  was  Mudjekeewis  chosen 
Father  of  the  Winds  of  Heaven. 

For  himself  he  kept  the  West-Wind, 
Gave  the  others  to  his  children  ; 

Unto  Wabun  gave  the  East- Wind, 

Gave  the  South  to  Shawondasee, 

And  the  North-Wind,  wild  and  cruel, 
To  the  fierce  Kabibonokka. 

Young  and  beautiful  was  Wabun  ; 

He  it  was  who  brought  the  morning, 

He  it  was  whose  silver  arrows 
Chased  the  dark  o’er  hill  and  valley  ; 

He  it  was  whose  cheeks  were  painted 
With  the  brightest  streaks  of  crimson, 
And  whose  voice  awoke  the  village, 
Called  the  deer,  and  called  the  hunter. 

Lonely  in  the  sky  was  Wabun  ; 
Though  the  birds  sang  gayly  to  him, 
Though  the  wild-flowers  of  the  meadow 
Filled  the  air  with  odors  for  him, 
Though  the  forests  and  the  rivers 
Sang  and  shouted  at  his  coming, 


THE  FOUR  WINDS. 


145 


Still  his  heart  was  sad  within  him, 

For  he  was  alone  in  heaven. 

But  one  morning,  gazing  earthward, 
While  the  village  still  was  sleeping, 

And  the  fog  lay  on  the  river, 

Like  a ghost,  that  goes  at  sunrise, 

He  beheld  a maiden  walking 
All  alone  upon  a meadow, 

Gathering  water-flags  and  rushes 
By  a river  in  the  meadow. 

Every  morning,  gazing  earthward, 
Still  the  first  thing  he  beheld  there 
W as  her  blue  eyes  looking  at  him, 

Two  blue  lakes  among  the  rushes. 

And  he  loved  the  lonely  maiden, 

Who  thus  waited  for  his  coming  ; 

For  they  both  were  solitary, 

She  on  earth  and  he  in  heaven. 

And  he  wooed  her  with  caresses, 
Wooed  her  with  his  smile  of  sunshine, 
With  his  flattering  words  he  wooed  her, 
With  his  sighing  and  his  singing, 
Gentlest  whispers  in  the  branches, 
Softest  music,  sweetest  odors, 

Till  he  drew  her  to  his  bosom, 

Folded  in  his  robes  of  crimson, 

Till  into  a star  he  changed  her, 
Trembling  still  upon  his  bosom  ; 

And  forever  in  the  heavens 
They  are  seen  together  walking, 

Wabun  and  the  Wabun -Annung, 
Wabun  and  the  Star  of  Morning. 

But  the  fierce  Kabibonokka 
Had  his  dwelling  among  icebergs, 

In  the  everlasting  snow-drifts, 

In  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 

In  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit. 

He  it  was  whos^  hand  in  Autumn 
Painted  all  the  trees  with  scarlet, 
Stained  the  leaves  with  red  and  yellow; 
He  it  was  who  sent  the  snowT-flakes, 
Sifting,  hissing  through  the  forest, 
Froze  the  ponds,  the  lakes,  the  rivers, 
Drove  the  loon  and  sea-gull  southward, 
Drove  the  cormorant  and  curlew 
To  their  nests  of  sedge  and  sea-tang 
In  the  realms  of  Shawrondasee. 

Once  the  fierce  Kabibonokka 
Issued  from  his  lodge  of  snow-drifts, 
From  his  home  among  the  icebergs, 
And- his  hair,  with  snow  besprinkled, 
Streamed  behind  him  like  a river, 

Like  a black  and  wintry  river, 

As  he  howled  and  hurried  southward, 
Over  frozen  lakes  and  moorlands. 

There  among  the  reeds  and  rushes 
Found  he  Sliingebis,  the  diver, 

10 


Trailing  strings  of  fish  behind  him, 

O’er  the  frozen  fens  and  moorlands, 
Lingering  still  among  the  moorlands. 
Though  his  tribe  had  long  departed 
To  the  land  of  Shawondasee. 

Cried  the  fierce  Kabibonokka, 

“ Who  is  this  that  dares  to  brave  me  ? 
Dares  to  stay  in  my  dominions, 

When  the  Wawa  has  departed, 

When  the  wild-goose  has  gone  south- 
ward, 

And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Long  ago  departed  southward  ? 

I will  go  into  his  wigwam, 

I will  put  his  smouldering  fire  out ! ” 
And  at  night  Kabibonokka 
To  the  lodge  came  wild  and  wailing, 
Heaped  the  snow  in  drifts  about  it, 
Shouted  down  into  the  smoke-flue, 
Shook  the  lodge-poles  in  his  fury, 
Flapped  the  curtain  of  the  door-way. 
Shingebis,  the  diver,  feared  not, 
Shingebis,  the  diver,  cared  not ; 

Four  great  logs  had  he  for  firewood, 

One  for  each  moon  of  the  winter, 

And  for  food  the  fishes  served  him. 

By  his  blazing  fire  he  sat  there, 

Warm  and  merry,  eating,  laughing, 
Singing,  “ 0 Kabibonokka, 

You  are  but  my  fellow-mortal  ! ” 

Then  Kabibonokka  entered, 

And  though  Shingebis,  the  diver, 

Felt  his  presence  by  the  coldness, 

Felt  his  icy  breath  upon  him, 

Still  he  did  not  cease  his  singing, 

Still  he  did  not  leave  his  laughing, 

Only  turned  the  log  a little, 

Only  made  the  fire  burn  brighter, 

Made  the  sparks  fly  up  the  smoke-fi1^ 
From  Kabibonokka’s  forehead, 

From  his  snow-besprinkled  tresses, 
Drops  of  sweat  fell  fast  and  heavy, 
Making  dints  upon  the  ashes, 

As  along  the  eaves  of  lodges, 

As  from  drooping  boughs  of  hemlock, 
Drips  the  melting  snow  in  spring-time, 
Making  hollows  in  the  snow-drifts. 

Till  at  last  he  rose  defeated, 

Could  not  bear  the  heat  and  laughter, 
Could  not  bear  the  merry  singing, 

But  rushed  headlong  through  the  door- 
way, 

Stamped  upon  the  crusted  snow-drifts, 
Stamped  upon  the  lakes  and  rivers, 
Made  the  snow  upon  them  harder, 

Made  the  ice  upon  them  thicker, 

I Challenged  Shingebis,  the  diver, 


146 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


To  come  forth  and  wrestle  with  him, 

To  come  forth  and  wrestle  naked 
On  the  frozen  fens  and  moorlands. 

Forth  went  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
Wrestled  all  night  with  the  North-Wind, 
Wrestled  naked  on  the  moorlands 
With  the  fierce  Kabibonokka, 

Till  his  panting  breath  grew  fainter, 

Till  his  frozen  grasp  grew  feebler, 

Till  he  reeled  and  staggered  backward, 
And  retreated,  baffled,  beaten, 

To  the  kingdom  of  Wabasso, 

To  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit, 
Hearing  still  the  gusty  laughter, 
Hearing  Shingebis,  the  diver, 

Singing,  * 4 0 Kabibonokka, 

You  are  but  my  fellow-mortal ! ” 

Shawondasee,  fat  and  lazy, 

Had  his  dwelling  far  to  southward, 

In  the  drowsy,  dreamy  sunshine, 

In  the  never-ending  Summer. 

He  it  was  who  sent  the  wood-birds, 

Sent  the  robin,  the  Opeehee, 

Sent  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 

Sent  the  Shawshaw,  sent  the  swallow, 
Sent  the  wild-goose,  Wawa,  northward, 
Sent  the  melons  and  tobacco, 

And  the  grapes  in  purple  clusters. 

From  his  pipe  the  smoke  ascending 
Filled  the  sky  with  haze  and  vapor, 
Filled  the  air  with  dreamy  softness, 
Gave  a twinkle  to  the  water, 

Touched  the  rugged  hills  with  smooth- 
ness, 

Brought  the  tender  Indian  Summer 
To  the  melancholy  north- land, 

In  the  dreary  Moon  of  Snow-shoes. 

Listless,  careless  Shawondasee  ! 

In  his  life  he  had.  one  shadow, 

In  his  heart  one  sorrow  had  he. 

Once,  as  he  was  gazing  northward, 

Far  away  upon  a prairie 
He  beheld  a maiden  standing, 

Saw  a tall  and  slender  maiden 
All  alone  upon  a prairie  ; 

Brightest  green  were  all  her  garments, 
And  her  hair  was  like  the  sunshine. 

bay  by  day  he  gazed  upon  her, 

Day  by  day  he  sighed  with  passion, 

Day  by  day  his  heart  within  him 
Grew  more  hot  with  love  and  longing 
For  the  maid  with  yellow  tresses. 

But  he  was  too  fat  and  lazy 
To  bestir  himself  and  woo  her  ; 

Yes,  too  indolent  and  easy 
To  pursue  her  and  persuade  her. 

So  he  only  gazed  upon  her, 


Only  sat  and  sighed  with  passion 
For  the  maiden  of  the  prairie. 

Till  one  morning,  looking  northward, 
He  beheld  her  yellow  tresses 
Changed  and  covered  o’er  with  white- 
ness, 

Covered  as  with  whitest  snow-flakes. 

4 4 Ah!  my  brother  from  the  North- 
land, 

From  the  kingdom  of  Wabassfc, 

From  the  land  of  the  White  Rabbit  ! 
You  have  stolen  the  maiden  from  me, 
You  have  laid  your  hand  upon  her, 

You  have  wooed  and  won  my  maiden, 
With  your  stories  of  the  North-land  ! ” 
Thus  the  wretched  Shawondasee 
Breathed  into  the  air  his  sorrow ; 

And  the  South- Wind  o’er  the  prairie 
Wandered  warm  with  sighs  of  passion, 
With  the  sighs  of  Shawondasee, 

Till  the  air  seemed  full  of  snow-flakes, 
Full  of  thistle-down  the  prairie, 

And  the  maid  with  hair  like  sunshine 
Vanished  from  his  sight  forever  ; 

Never  more  did  Shawondasee 
See  the  maid  with  yellow  tresses  ! 

Poor,  deluded  Shawondasee  ! 

’T  was  no  woman  that  you  gazed  at, 

’T  was  no  maiden  that  you  sighed  for, 

’T  was  the  prairie  dandelion 
That  through  all  the  dreamy  Summer 
You  had  gazed  at  with  such  longing, 
You  had  sighed  for  with  such  passion, 
And  had  puffed  away  forever, 

Blown  into  the  air  with  sighing. 

Ah  ! deluded  Shawondasee  1 

Thus  the  Four  Winds  were  divided  ; 
Thus  the  sons  of  Mudjekeewis 
Had  their  stations  in  the  heavens. 

At  the  corners  of  the  heavens  ; 

For  himself  the  West- Wind  only 
Kept  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis. 


III. 

hiawatha’s  childhood. 

Downward  through  the  evening  twi- 
light, 

In  the  days  that  are  forgotten, 

In  the  unremembered  ages, 

From  the  full  moon  fell  Nokomis, 

Fell  the  beautiful  Nokomis, 

She  a wife,  but  not  a mother. 

She  was  sporting  with  her  women 
Swinging  in  a swing  of  grape-vines, 


HIAWATHA’S  CHILDHOOD. 


147 


When  her  rival,  the  rejected, 

Full  of  jealousy  and  hatred, 

Cut  the  leafy  swing  asunder, 

Cut  in  twain  the  twisted  grape-vines, 
And  Nokomis  fell  affrighted 
Downward  through  the  evening  twilight, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 

On  the  prairie  full  of  blossoms. 

“See  ! a star  falls  ! ” said  the  people  ; 
“From  the  sky  a star  is  falling  ! ” 

There  among  the  ferns  and  mosses, 
There  among  the  prairie  lilies, 

On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 

In  the  moonlight  and  the  starlight, 

Fair  Nokomis  bore  a daughter. 

And  she  called  her  name  Wenonah, 

As  the  first-born  of  her  daughters. 

And  the  daughter  of  Nokomis 
Grew  up  like  the  prairie  lilies, 

Grew  a tall  and  slender  maiden, 

With  the  beauty  of  the  moonlight, 

With  the  beauty  of  the  starlight. 

And  Nokomis  warned  her  often, 
Saying  oft,  and  oft  repeating, 

“ 0,  beware  of  Mudjekeewis, 

Of  the  West-Wind,  Mudjekeewis  ; 

Listen  not  to  what  he  tells  you  ; 

Lie  not  down  upon  the  meadow, 

Stoop  not  down  among  the  lilies, 

Lest  the  West- Wind  come  and  harm 
you  ! ” 

But  she  heeded  not  the  warning, 
Heeded  not  those  words  of  wisdom, 

And  the  West- Wind  came  at  evening, 
Walking  lightly  o’er  the  prairie, 
Whispering  to  the  leaves  and  blossoms, 
Bending  low  the  flowers  and  grasses, 
Found  the  beautiful  Wenonah, 

Lying  there  among  the  lilies, 

Wooed  her  with  his  words  of  sweetness, 
Wooed  her  with  his  soft  caresses, 

Till  she  bore  a son  in  sorrow, 

Bore  a son  of  love  and  sorrow. 

Thus  was  born  my  Hiawatha, 

Thus  was  born  the  child  of  wonder  ; 

But  the  daughter  of  Nokomis, 
Hiawatha’s  gentle  mother, 

In  her  anguish  died  deserted 

By  the  West- Wind,  false  and  faithless, 

By  the  heartless  Mudjekeewis. 

For  her  daughter,  long  and  loudly 
Wailed  and  wept  the  sad  Nokomis  ; 

“ 0 that  I were  dead  ! ” she  murmured, 
“ 0 that  I were  dead,  as  thou  art ! 

No  more  work,  and  no  more  weeping, 
Wahonowin  ! Wahonowin  ! ” 

By  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gurnee, 


By  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water, 

Stood  the  wigwam  of  Nokomis, 
Daughter  of  the  Moon,  Nokomis. 

Dark  behind  it  rose  the  forest, 

Rose  the  black  and  gloomy  pine-trees, 
Rose  the  firs  with  cones  upon  them  ; 
Bright  before  it  beat  the  water, 

Beat  the  clear  and  sunny  water, 

Beat  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water. 

There  the  wrinkled,  old  Nokomis 
Nursed  the  little  Hiawatha, 

Rocked  him  in  his  linden  cradle, 

Bedded  soft  in  moss  and  rushes. 

Safely  bound  with  reindeer  sinews  ; 
Stilled  his  fretful  wail  by  saying, 
“Hush!  the  Naked  Bear  will  hear 
thee  ! ” 

Lulled  him  into  slumber,  singing, 

4 4 Ewa-yea  ! my  little  owlet  ! 

WTho  is  this,  that  lights  the  wigwam  ? 
With  his  great  eyes  lights  the  wigwam  ? 
Ewa-yea  ! my  little  owlet  ! ” 

Many  things  Nokomis  taught  him 
Of  the  stars  that  shine  in  heaven  ; 
Showed  him  Ishkoodah,  the  comet, 
Ishkoodah,  with  fiery  tresses  ; 

Showed  the  Death-Dance  of  the  spirits, 
Warriors  with  their  plumes  and  war- 
clubs, 

Flaring  far  awTay  to  northward 
In  the  frosty  nights  of  Winter  ; 

Showed  the  broad,  white  road  in  heaven, 
Pathway  of  the  ghosts,  the  shadows, 
Running  straight  across  the  heavens, 
Crowded  with  the  ghosts,  the  shadows. 

At  the  door  on  summer  evenings 
Sat  the  little  Hiawatha  ; 

Heard  the  whispering  of  the  pine-trees. 
Heard  the  lapping  of  the  water, 

Sounds  of  music,  words  of  wonder  ; 

“ Minne-wawa  ! ” said  the  pine-trees, 

“ Mudway-aushka  ! ” said  the  water. 

Saw  the  fire-fly,  Wah-wali-taysee, 
Flitting  through  the  dusk  of  evening, 
With  the  twinkle  of  its  candle 
Lighting  up  the  brakes  and  bushes, 

And  he  sang  the  song  of  children, 

Sang  the  song  Nokomis  taught  him  : 

44  Wah-wah-taysee,  little  fire-fly, 

Little,  flitting,  white-fire  insect, 

Little,  dancing,  white-fire  creature. 

Light  me  with  your  little  candle, 

Ere  upon  my  bed  I lay  me, 

Ere  in  sleep  I close  my  eyelids  ! ” 

Saw  the  moon  rise  from  the  water 
Rippling,  rounding  from  the  water. 

Saw  the  flecks  and  shadows  on  it, 


148 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Whispered,  “ What  is  that,  Nokomis  ? ” 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered  : 
“Once  a warrior,  very  angry, 

Seized  his  grandmother,  and  threw  her 
Up  into  the  sky  at  midnight ; 

Eight  against  the  moon  he  threw  her ; 

’T  is  her  body  that  you  see  there/’ 

Saw  the  rainbow  in  the  heaven, 

In  the  eastern  sky,  the  rainbow, 
Whispered,  “ What  is  that,  Nokomis  ? ” 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered  : 

“’Tis  the  heaven  of  flowers  you  see 
there  ; 

All  the  wild-flowers  of  the  forest, 

All  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 

When  on  earth  they  fade  and  perish, 
Blossom  in  that  heaven  above  us.” 
When  he  heard  the  owls  at  midnight, 
Hooting,  laughing  in  the  forest, 

“ What  is  that  ? ” he  cried  in  terror  ; 

“ What  is  that  ? ” he  said,  “Nokomis?” 
And  the  good  Nokomis  answered  : 

“ That  is  but  the  owl  and  owlet, 

Talking  in  their  native  language, 
Talking,  scolding  at  each  other.” 

Then  the  little  Hiawatha 
Learned  of  every  bird  its  language, 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  they  built  their  nests  in  Summer, 
Where  they  hid  themselves  in  Winter, 
Talked  with  them  whene’er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  “Hiawatha’s  Chickens.” 

Of  all  beasts  he  learned  the  language, 
Learned  their  names  and  all  their  secrets, 
How  the  beavers  built  their  lodges, 
Where  the  squirrels  hid  their  acorns, 
How  the  reindeer  ran  so  swiftly, 

Why  the  rabbit  was  so  timid, 

Talked  with  them  whene’er  he  met  them, 
Called  them  “ Hiawatha’s  Brothers.” 
Then  Iagoo,  the  great  boaster, 

He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 

He  the  traveller  and  the  talker, 

He  the  friend  of  old  Nokomis, 

Made  a bow  for  Hiawatha  ; 

From  a branch  of  ash  he  made  it, 

From  an  oak -bough  made  the  arrows, 
Tipped  with  flint,  and  winged  with 
feathers, 

And  the  cord  he  made  of  deer-skin. 

Then  he  said  to  Hiawatha  : 

“ Go,  my  son,  into  the  forest, 

Where  the  red  deer  herd  together, 

Kill  for  us  a famous  roebuck, 

Kill  for  us  a deer  with  antlers  ! ” 

Forth  into  the  forest  straightway 
All  alone  walked  Hiawatha 


Proudly,  with  his  bow  and  arrows  ; 

And  the  birds  sang  round  him,  o’er  him, 
“ Do  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha  ! ” 

Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 

Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 

“Do  not  shoot  us,  Hiawatha ! ” 

Up  the  oak-tree,  close  beside  him, 
Sprang  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 

In  and  out  among  the  branches, 

Coughed  and  chattered  from  the  oak-tree, 
Laughed,  and  said  between  his  laughing, 
“ Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha  ! ” 

And  the  rabbit  from  his  pathway 
Leaped  aside,  and  at  a distance 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 

Half  in  fear  and  half  in  frolic, 

Saying  to  the  little  hunter, 

“ Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha ! ” 

But  he  heeded  not,  nor  heard  them, 
For  his  thoughts  were  with  the  red  deer  ; 
On  their  tracks  his  eyes  were  fastened, 
Leading  downward  to  the  river, 

To  the  ford  across  the  river, 

And  as  one  in  slumber  walked  he. 

Hidden  in  the  alder-bushes, 

There  he  waited  till  the  deer  came. 

Till  he  saw  two  antlers  lifted, 

Saw  two  e}?es  look  from  the  thicket, 

Saw  two  nostrils  point  to  windward, 
And  a deer  came  down  the  pathway, 
Flecked  with  leafy  light  and  shadow. 
And  his  heart  within  him  fluttered, 
Trembled  like  the  leaves  above  him, 
Like  the  birch-leaf  palpitated, 

As  the  deer  came  down  the  pathway. 

Then,  upon  one  knee  uprising, 
Hiawatha  aimed  an  arnnv  ; 

Scarce  a twflg  moved  with  his  motion, 
Scarce  a leaf  w7as  stirred  or  rustled, 

But  the  wary  roebuck  started, 

Stamped  with  all  his  hoofs  together, 
Listened  with  one  foot  uplifted, 

Leaped  as  if  to  meet  the  arrow  ; 

Ah  ! the  singing,  fatal  arrow, 

Like  a wasp  it  buzzed  and  stung  him  ! 

Dead  he  lay  there  in  the  forest, 

By  the  ford  across  the  river  ; 

Beat  his  timid  heart  no  longer, 

But  the  heart  of  Hiawatha 
Throbbed  and  shouted  and  exulted, 

As  he  bore  the  red  deer  homeward, 

And  Iagoo  and  Nokomis 
Hailed  his  coming  with  applauses. 

From  the  red  deer’s  hide  Nokomis 
Made  a cloak  for  Hiawatha, 

From  the  red  deer’s  flesh  Nokomis 
Made  a banquet  in  his  honor. 


HIAWATHA  AND  MUDJEKEEWIS.  149 


All  tlie  village  came  and  feasted, 

All  the  guests  praised  Hiawatha, 

Called  him  Strong-Heart,  Soan-ge-taha  ! 
Called  him  Loon -Heart,  Mahn-go-taysee  ! 


IV. 

HIAWATHA  AND  MUDJEKEEWIS. 

Out  of  childhood  into  manhood 
Now  had  grown  my  Hiawatha, 

Skilled  in  all  the  craft  of  hunters, 
Learned  in  all  the  lore  of  old  men, 

In  all  youthful  sports  and  pastimes, 

In  all  manly  arts  and  labors. 

Swift  of  foot  was  Hiawatha  ; 

He  could  shoot  an  arrow  from  him, 

And  run  forward  with  such  lleetness, 
That  the  arrow  fell  behind  him  ! 

Strong  of  arm  was  Hiawatha  ; 

He  could  shoot  ten  arrows  upward, 
Shoot  them  with  such  strength  and 
swiftness, 

That  the  tenth  had  left  the  bow-string 
Ere  the  first  to  earth  had  fallen  ! 

He  had  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 

Magic  mittens  made  of  deer-skin  ; 

When  upon  his  hands  he  wore  them, 

He  could  smite  the  rocks  asunder, 

He  could  grind  them  into  powder. 

He  had  moccasins  enchanted, 

Magic  moccasins  of  deer-skin  ; 

When  he  bound  them  round  his  ankles, 
When  upon  his  feet  he  tied  them, 

At  each  stride  a mile  he  measured ! 

Much  he  questioned  old  Nokomis 
Of  his  father  Mudjekeewis  ; 

Learned  from  her  the  fatal  secret 
Of  the  beauty  of  his  mother, 

Of  the  falsehood  of  his  father  ; 

And  his  heart  w*as  hot  within  him, 

Like  a living  coal  his  heart  was. 

Then  he  said  to  old  Nokomis, 

“ I will  go  to  Mudjekeewis, 

See  how  fares  it  with  my  father, 

At  the  doorways  of  the  West-Wind, 

At  the  portals  of  the  Sunset  ! ” 

From  his  lodge  went  Hiawatha, 
Dressed  for  travel,  armed  for  hunting  ; 
Dressed  in  deer-skin  shirt  and  leggings, 
Richly  wrought  with  quills,  and  wampum ; 
On  his  head  his  eagle- feathers, 

Round  his  waist  his  belt  of  wampum, 

In  his  hand  his  bow  of  ash-wood, 

Strung  with  sinews  of  the  reindeer  ; 

In  his  quiver  oaken  arrows, 


Tipped  with  jasper,  winged  with  feathers  ; 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 

With  his  moccasins  enchanted. 

Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis, 

“Go  not  forth,  0 Hiawatha  ! 

To  the  kingdom  of  the  West- Wind, 

To  the  realms  of  Mudjekeewis, 

Lest  he  harm  you  with  his  magic, 

Lest  he  kill  you  with  his  cunning  ! ” 

But  the  fearless  Hiawatha 
Heeded  not  her  woman’s  warning  ; 

Forth  he  strode  into  the  forest, 

At  each  stride  a mile  he  measured  ; 
Lurid  seemed  the  sky  above  him, 

Lurid  seemed  the  earth  beneath  him, 
Hot  and  close  the  air  around  him, 

Filled  with  smoke  and  fiery  vapors, 

As  of  burning  woods  and  prairies, 

For  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 

Like  a living  coal  his  heart  was. 

So  he  journeyed  westward,  westward, 
Left  the  fleetest  deer  behind  him. 

Left  the  antelope  and  bison  ; 

Crossed  the  rushing  Esconaba, 

Crossed  the  mighty  Mississippi, 

Passed  the  Mountains  of  the  Prairie, 
Passed  the  land  of  Crows  and  Foxes, 
Passed  the  dwellings  of  the  Blackfeet, 
Came  unto  the  Rocky  Mountains, 

To  the  kingdom  of  the  West- Wind, 
Where  upon  the  gusty  summits 
Sat  the  ancient  Mudjekeewis, 

Ruler  of  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Filled  with  awe  was  Hiawatha 
At  the  aspect  of  his  father. 

On  the  air  about  him  wildly 
Tossed  and  streamed  his  cloudy  tresses, 
Gleamed  like  drifting  snow  his  tresses, 
Glared  like  Ishkoodah,  the  comet, 

Like  the  star  with  fiery  tresses. 

Filled  with  joy  was  Mudjekeewis 
When  he  looked  on  Hiawatha, 

Saw  his  youth  rise  up  before  him 
In  the  face  of  Hiawatha, 

Saw  the  beauty  of  Wenonah 
From  the  grave  rise  up  before  him. 

“ Welcome  ! ” said  he,  “ Hiawatha, 

To  the  kingdom  of  the  West- Wind  ! 
Long  have  I been  waiting  for  you  ! 

Youth  is  lovely,  age  is  lonely, 

Youth  is  fiery,  age  is  frosty  ; 

You  bring  back  the  days  departed. 

You  bring  back  my  youth  of  passion, 
And  the  beautiful  Wenonah  ! ” 

Many  days  they  talked  together, 
Questioned,  listened,  waited,  answered  j 
Much  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis 


150 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Boasted  of  liis  ancient  prowess, 

Of  his  perilous  adventures, 

His  indomitable  courage, 

His  invulnerable  body. 

Patiently  sat  Hiawatha, 

Listening  to  his  father’s  boasting  ; 

With  a smile  he  sat  and  listened, 
Uttered  neither  threat  nor  menace, 
Neither  word  nor  look  betrayed  him, 
But  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 

Like  a living  coal  his  heart  was. 

Then  he  said,  “ 0 Mudjekeewis, 

Is  there  nothing  that  can  harm  you  ? 
Nothing  that  you  are  afraid  of  ? ” 

And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis, 

Grand  and  gracious  in  his  boasting, 
Answered,  saying,  “ There  is  nothing, 
Nothing  but  the  black  rock  yonder, 
Nothing  but  the  fatal  Wawbeek  ? ” 

And  he  looked  at  Hiawatha 
With  a wise  look  and  benignant, 

With  a countenance  paternal. 

Looked  with  pride  upon  the  beauty 
Of  his  tall  and  graceful  figure, 

Saying,  “ 0 my  Hiawatha  ! 

Is  there  anything  can  harm  you  ? 
Anything  you  are  afraid  of  ? ” 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha 
Paused  awhile,  as  if  uncertain, 

Held  his  peace,  as  if  resolving, 

And  then  answered,  “There  is  nothing, 
Nothing  but  the  bulrush  yonder, 
Nothing  but  the  great  Apukwa  ! ” 

And  as  Mudjekeewis,  rising, 

Stretched  his  hand  to  pluck  the  bulrush, 
Hiawatha  cried  in  terror, 

Cried  in  well-dissembled  terror, 

“ Kago  ! kago  ! do  not  touch  it  ! ” 

“Ah,  kaween  ! ” said  Mudjekeewis, 
“No  indeed,  I will  not  touch  it  ! ” 

Then  they  talked  of  other  matters  ; 
First  of  Hiawatha’s  brothers, 

First  of  Wabun,  of  the  East- Wind, 

Of  the  South-  Wind,  Shawondasee, 

Of  the  North,  Kabibonokka  ; 

Then  of  Hiawatha’s  mother, 

Of  the  beautiful  Wenonah, 

Of  her  birth  upon  the  meadow, 

Of  her  death,  as  old  Nokomis 
Had  remembered  and  related. 

And  he  cried,  “0  Mudjekeewis, 

It  was  you  who  killed  Wenonah, 

Took  her  young  life  and  her  beauty, 
Broke  the  Lily  of  the  Prairie, 

Trampled  it  beneath  your  footsteps  ; 

You  confess  it ! you  confess  it ! ” 

And  the  mighty  Mudjekeewis 


Tossed  upon  the  wind  his  tresses, 

Bowed  his  hoary  head  in  anguish, 

With  a silent  nod  assented. 

Then  up  started  Hiawatha, 

And  with  threatening  look  and  gesture 
Laid  his  hand  upon  the  black  rock, 

On  the  fatal  Wawbeek  laid  it, 

With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 

Pent  the  jutting  crag  asunder. 

Smote  and  crushed  it  into  fragments, 
Hurled  them  madly  at  his  father, 

The  remorseful  Mudjekeewis, 

For  his  heart  was  hot  within  him, 

Like  a living  coal  his  heart  was. 

But  the  ruler  of  the  West- Wind 
Blew  the  fragments  backward  from  him, 
With  the  breathing  of  his  nostrils, 

With  the  tempest  of  his  anger, 

Blew  them  back  at  his  assailant ; 

Seized  the  bulrush,  the  Apukwa, 
Dragged  it  with  its  roots  and  fibres 
From  the  margin  of  the  meadow. 

From  its  ooze,  the  giant  bulrush  ; 

Long  and  loud  laughed  Hiawatha  ! 

Then  began  the  deadly  conflict, 

Hand  to  hand  among  the  mountains  ; 
From  his  eyry  screamed  the  eagle, 

The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle 
Sat  upon  the  crags  around  them, 
Wheeling  flapped  his  wings  above  them. 

Like  a tall  tree  in  the  tempest 
Bent  and  lashed  the  giant  bulrush  ; 

And  in  masses  huge  and  heavy 
Crashing  fell  the  fatal  Wawbeek  ; 

Till  the  earth  shook  with  the  tumult 
And  confusion  of  the  battle, 

And  the  air  was  full  of  shoutings, 

And  the  thunder  of  the  mountains, 
Starting,  answered,  “ Bairn -wawa  ! ” 

Back  retreated  Mudjekeewis, 

Rushing  westward  o’er  the  mountains, 
Stumbling  westward  down  the  moun- 
tains, 

Three  whole  days  retreated  fighting, 

Still  pursued  by  Hiawatha 

To  the  doorways  of  the  West- Wind, 

To  the  portals  of  the  Sunset, 

To  the  earth’s  remotest  border, 

Where  into  the  empty  spaces 
Sinks  the  sun,  as  a flamingo 
Drops  into  her  nest  at  nightfall, 

In  the  melancholy  marshes. 

“Hold!”  at  length  cried  Mudjeke*' 
wis, 

“Hold,  my  son,  my  Hiawatha  ! 

’T  is  impossible  to  kill  me, 

For  you  cannot  kill  the  immortal. 


HIAWATHA’S  FASTING. 


151 


I have  put  you  to  this  trial, 

But  to  know  and  prove  your  courage  ; 
Now  receive  the  prize  of  valor  ! 

“ Go  back  to  your  home  and  people, 
Live  among  them,  toil  among  them, 
Cleanse  the  earth  from  all  that  harms  it, 
Clear  the  fishing-grounds  and  rivers, 
Slay  all  monsters  and  magicians, 

All  the  Wendigoes,  the  giants, 

All  the  serpents,  the  Kenabeeks, 

As  I slew  the  Mishe-Mokwa, 

Slew  the  Great  Bear  of  the  mountains. 

“And  at  last  when  Death  draws  near 
you, 

When  the  awful  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  you  in  the  darkness, 

I will  share  my  kingdom  with  you, 
Ruler  shall  you  be  thenceforward 
Of  the  North  west- Wind,  Keewaydin, 

Of  the  home-wind,  the  Keewaydin.” 

Thus  was  fought  that  famous  battle 
In  the  dreadful  days  of  Shah-shah, 

In  the  days  long  since  departed, 

In  the  kingdom  of  the  West- Wind. 

Still  the  hunter  sees  its  traces 
Scattered  far  o’er  hill  and  valley  ; 

Sees  the  giant  bulrush  growing 
By  the  ponds  and  water-courses, 

Sees  the  masses  of  the  Wawbeek 
Lying  still  in  every  valley. 

Homeward  now  went  Hiawatha  ; 
Pleasant  was  the  landscape  round  him, 
Pleasant  was  the  air  above  him, 

For  the  bitterness  of  anger 
Had  departed  wholly  from  him, 

From  his  brain  the  thought  of  vengeance, 
From  his  heart  the  burning  fever. 

Only  once  his  pace  he  slackened, 

Only  once  he  paused  or  halted, 

Paused  to  purchase  heads  of  arrows 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 

In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

Where  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Flash  and  gleam  among  the  oak-trees, 
Laugh  and  leap  into  the  valley. 

There  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Made  his  arrow-heads  of  sandstone, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony, 

Arrow-heads  of  flint  and  jasper, 
Smoothed  and  sharpened  at  the  edges, 
Hard  and  polished,  keen  and  costly. 

With  him  dwelt  his  dark-eyed  daugh- 
ter, 

Wayward  as  the  Minnehaha,  _ 

With  her  moods  of  shade  and  sunshine, 
Eyes  that  smiled  and  frowned  alternate, 
Feet  as  rapid  as  the  river, 


Tresses  flowing  like  the  water, 

And  as  musical  a laughter  ; 

And  he  named  her  from  the  river, 

From  the  water-fall  he  named  her, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water. 

Was  it  then  for  heads  of  arrows, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony, 

Arrow-heads  of  flint  and  jasper, 

That  my  Hiawatha  halted 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ? 

Was  it  not  to  see  the  maiden, 

See  the  face  of  Laughing  Water 
Peeping  from  behind  the  curtain, 

Hear  the  rustling  of  her  garments 
From  behind  the  waving  curtain, 

As  one  sees  the  Minnehaha 
Gleaming,  glancing  through  the  branch- 
es, 

As  one  hears  the  Laughing  Water 
From  behind  its  screen  of  branches  ? 
Who  shall  say  what  thoughts  and 
visions 

Fill  the  fiery  brains  of  young  men  ? 

Who  shall  say  what  dreams  of  beauty 
Filled  the  heart  of  Hiawatha  ? 

All  he  told  to  old  Nokomis, 

When  he  reached  the  lodge  at  sunset, 
Was  the  meeting  with  his  father, 

Was  his  fight  with  Mudjekeewis  ; 

Not  a word  he  said  of  arrows, 

Not  a word  of  Laughing  Water. 


Y. 

Hiawatha’s  fasting. 

You  shall  hear  how  Hiawatha 
Prayed  and  fasted  in  the  forest, 

Not  for  greater  skill  in  hunting, 

Not  for  greater  craft  in  fishing, 

Not  for  triumphs  in  the  battle, 

And  renown  among  the  warriors, 

But  for  profit  of  the  people, 

For  advantage  of  the  nations. 

First  he  built  a lodge  for  fasting, 
Built  a wigwam  in  the  forest, 

By  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water, 

In  the  blithe  and  pleasant  Spring-time, 
In  the  Moon  of  Leaves  he  built  it, 

And,  with  dreams  and  visions  many, 
Seven  whole  days  and  nights  he  fasted. 

On  the  first  day  of  his  fasting 
Through  the  leafy  woods  he  wandered  ; 
Saw  the  deer  start  from  the  thicket, 
Saw  the  rabbit  in  his  burrow, 

Heard  the  pheasant,  Bena,  drumming, 


152 


T?HE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Heard  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 

Rattling  in  his  hoard  of  acorns, 

Saw  the  pigeon,  the  Omeme, 

Building  nests  among  the  pine-trees, 

And  in  liocks  the  wild  goose,  Wawa, 
Flying  to  the  fen-lands  northward, 
Whirring,  wailing  far  above  him. 
“Master  of  Life!”  he  cried,  despond- 
ing, 

“Must  our  lives  depend  on  these 
things  ? ” 

On  the  next  day  of  his  fasting 
By  the  river’s  brink  he  wandered, 
Through  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
Saw  the  wild  rice,  Mahnomonee, 

Saw  the  blueberry,  Meenahga, 

And  the  strawberry,  Odahmin, 

And  the  gooseberry,  Shahbomin, 

And  the  grape-yine,  the  Bemahgut, 
Trailing  o’er  the  alder-branches, 

Filling  all  the  air  with  fragrance  ! 
“Master  of  Life ! ” he  cried,  desponding, 
“ Must  our  lives  depend  on  these 
things  ? ” 

On  the  third  day  of  his  fasting 
By  the  lake  he  sat  and  pondered, 

By  the  still,  transparent  water  ; 

Saw  the  sturgeon,  Nahma,  leaping, 
Scattering  drops  like  beads  of  wampum, 
Saw  the  yellow  perch,  the  Sahwa, 

Like  a sunbeam  in  the  water, 

Saw  the  pike,  the  Maskenozlia, 

And  the  herring,  Okahahwis, 

And  the  Shawgashee,  the  craw-fish  ! 
“Master  of  Life  !”  he  cried,  despond- 
ing, 

“Must  our  lives  depend  on  these 
things  ? ” 

On  the  fourth  day  of  his  fasting 
In  his  lodge  he  lay  exhausted  ; 

From  his  couch  of  leaves  and  branches 
Gazing  with  half-open  eyelids, 

Full  of  shadowy  dreams  and  visions, 

On  the  dizzy,  swimming  landscape, 

On  the  gleaming  of  the  water, 

On  the  splendor  of  the  sunset. 

And  he  saw  a youth  approaching, 
Dressed  in  garments  green  and  yellow 
Coming  through  the  purple  twilight, 
Through  the  splendor  of  the  sunset ; 
Plumes  of  green  bent  o’er  his  forehead, 
And  his  hair  was  soft  and  golden. 

Standing  at  the  open  doorway, 

Long  he  looked  at  Hiawatha, 

Looked  with  pity  and  compassion 
On  his  wasted  form  and  features, 

And,  in  accents  like  the  sighing 


Of  the  South-Wind  in  the  tree-tops, 

Said  he,  “0  my  Hiawatha  ! 

All  your  prayers  are  heard  in  heaven, 

For  you  pray  not  like  the  others  ; 

Not  for  greater  skill  in  hunting, 

Not  for  greater  craft  in  fishing, 

Not  for  triumph  in  the  battle, 

Nor  renown  among  the  warriors, 

But  for  profit  of  the  people, 

For  advantage  of  the  nations. 

“ From  the  Master  of  Life  descending, 
I,  the  friend  of  man,  Mondamin, 

Come  to  warn  you  and  instruct  you, 

How  by  struggle  and  by  labor 

You  shall  gain  what  you  have  prayed  for. 

Rise  up  from  your  bed  of  branches, 

Rise,  0 youth,  and  wrestle  with  me  ! ” 

Faint  with  famine,  Hiawatha 
Started  from  his  bed  of  branches, 

From  the  twilight  of  his  wigwam 
Forth  into  the  flush  of  sunset 
Came,  and  wrestled  with  Mondamin  , 

At  his  touch  he  felt  new  courage 
Throbbing  in  his  brain  and  bosom, 

Felt  new  life  and  hope  and  vigor 
Run  through  every  nerve  and  fibre. 

So  they  wrestled  there  together 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 

And  the  more  they  strove  and  struggled, 
Stronger  still  grew  Hiawatha  ; 

Till  the  darkness  fell  around  them, 

And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From  her  nest  among  the  pine-trees, 
Gave  a cry  of  lamentation, 

Gave  a scream  of  pain  and  famine. 

“ ’T  is  enough  ! ” then  said  Mondamin, 
Smiling  upon  Hiawatha, 

“ But  to-morrow,  when  the  sun  sets, 

I will  come  again  to  try  you.” 

And  he  vanished,  and  was  seen  not ; 
Whether  sinking  as  the  rain  sinks, 
Whether  rising  as  the  mists  rise, 
Hiawatha  saw  not,  knew  not, 

Only  saw  that  he  had  vanished, 

Leaving  him  alone  and  fainting, 

With  the  misty  lake  below  him, 

And  the  reeling  stars  above  him. 

On  the  morrow  and  the  next  day. 
When  the  sun  through  heaven  descend- 
ing, 

Like  a red  and  burning  cinder 
From  the  hearth  of  the  Great  Spirit, 
Fell  into  the  western  waters, 

Came  Mondamin  for  the  trial, 

For  the  strife  with  Hiawatha  ; 

Came  as  silent  as  the  dew  comes, 

From  the  empty  air  appearing, 


HIAWATHA’S  FASTING.  * 


153 


Into  empty  air  returning, 

Taking  shape  when  earth  it  touches, 

But  invisible  to  all  men 
In  its  coming  and  its  going. 

Thrice  they  wrestled  there  together 
In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 

Till  the  darkness  fell  around  them, 

Till  the  heron,  the  Shuh-sliuh-gah, 

F rom  her  nest  among  the  pine-trees, 
Uttered  her  loud  cry  of  famine, 

And  Mondamin  paused  to  listen. 

Tall  and  beautiful  he  stood  there, 

In  his  garments  green  and  yellow  ; 

To  and  fro  his  plumes  above  him 
Waved  and  nodded  with  his  breathing, 
And  the  sweat  of  the  encounter 
Stood  like  drops  of  dew  upon  him. 

And  he  cried,  “0  Hiawatha  ! 

Bravely  have  you  wrestled  with  me, 
Thrice  have  wrestled  stoutly  with  me, 
And  the  Master  of  Life,  who  sees  us, 

He  will  give  to  you  the  triumph  ! ” 

Then  he  smiled,  and  said  : “ To-mor- 
row 

Is  the  last  day  of  your  conflict, 

Is  the  last  day  of  your  fasting. 

You  will  conquer  and  o’ercome  me  ; 
Make  a bed  for  me  to  lie  in, 

Where  the  rain  may  fall  upon  me, 

AY here  the  sun  may  come  and  warm  me  ; 
Strip  these  garments,  green  and  yellow, 
Strip  this  nodding  plumage  from  me, 
Lay  me  in  the  earth,  and  make  it 
Soft  and  loose  and  light  above  me. 

“ Let  no  hand  disturb  my  slumber, 
Let  no  weed  nor  worm  molest  me. 

Let  not  Kahgahgee,  the  raven, 

Come  to  haunt  me  and  molest  me. 

Only  come  yourself  to  watch  me, 

Till  I wake,  and  start,  and  quicken, 

Till  I leap  into  the  sunshine.” 

And  thus  saying,  he  departed  ; 
Peacefully  slept  Hiawatha, 

But  he  heard  the  Wawonaissa, 

Heard  the  whippoorwill  complaining, 
Perched  upon  his  lonely  wigwam  ; 

Heard  the  rushing  Sebowisha, 

Heard  the  rivulet  rippling  near  him, 
Talking  to  the  darksome  forest  ; 

Heard  the  sighing  of  the  branches, 

As  they  lifted  and  subsided 
At  the  passing  of  the  night-wind. 

Heard  them,  as  one  hears  in  slumber 
Far-off  murmurs,  dreamy  whispers  : 
Peacefully  slept  Hiawatha. 

On  the  morrow  came  Nokomis, 

On  the  seventh  day  of  his  fasting. 


Came  with  food  for  Hiawatha, 

Came  imploring  and  bewailing, 

Lest  his  hunger  should  o’ercome  him, 
Lest  his  fasting  should  be  fatal. 

But  he  tasted  not,  and  touched  not. 
Only  said  to  her,  “ Nokomis, 

Wait  until  the  sun  is  setting, 

Till  the  darkness  falls  around  us, 

Till  the  heron,  the  Shuli-shuh-gah, 
Crying  from  the  desolate  marshes. 

Tells  us  that  the  day  is  ended.” 

Homeward  weeping  went  Nokomis, 
Sorrowing  for  her  Hiawatha, 

Fearing  lest  his  strength  should  fail  him, 
Lest  his  fasting  should  be  fatal. 

He  meanwhile  sat  weary  waiting 
For  the  coming  of  Mondamin, 

Till  the  shadows,  pointing  eastward. 
Lengthened  over  held  and  forest, 

Till  the  sun  dropped  from  the  heaven, 
Floating  on  the  waters  westward, 

As  a red  leaf  in  the  Autumn 
Falls  and  floats  upon  the  water, 

Falls  and  sinks  into  its  bosom. 

And  behold  ! the  young  Mondamin, 
With  his  soft  and  shining  tresses, 

With  his  garments  green  and  yellow. 
With  his  long  and  glossy  plumage, 
Stood  and  beckoned  at  the  doorway. 
And  as  one  in  slumber  walking, 

Pale  and  haggard,  but  undaunted, 

From  the  wigwam  Hiawatha 
Came  and  wrestled  with  Mondamin. 

Round  about  him  spun  the  landscape, 
Sky  and  forest  reeled  together, 

And  his  strong  heart  leaped  within  him, 
As  the  sturgeon  leaps  and  struggles 
In  a net  to  break  its  meshes. 

Like  a ring  of  fire  around  him 
Blazed  and  flared  the  red  horizon, 

And  a hundred  suns  seemed  looking 
At  the  combat  of  the  wrestlers. 

Suddenly  upon  the  greensward 
All  alone  stood  Hiawatha, 

Panting  with  his  wild  exertion, 
Palpitating  with  the  struggle  ; 

And  before  him,  breathless,  lifeless, 

Lay  the  youth,  with  hair  dishevelled. 
Plumage  torn,  and  garments  tattered. 
Dead  he  lay  there  in  the  sunset. 

And  victorious  Hiawatha 
Made  the  grave  as  he  commanded, 
Stripped  the  garments  from  Mondamin, 
Stripped  his  tattered  plumage  from  him, 
Laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  made  it 
Soft  and  loose  and  light  above  him  ; 

And  the  heron,  the  Shuli-shuh-gah, 


154 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


From  the  melancholy  moorlands, 

Gave  a cry  of  lamentation, 

Gave  a cry  of  pain  and  anguish  ! 

Homeward  then  went  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis, 

And  the  seven  days  of  his  fasting 
Were  accomplished  and  completed. 

But  the  place  was  not  forgotten 
Where  he  wrestled  with  Mondamin  ; 
Nor  forgotten  nor  neglected 
Was  the  grave  where  lay  Mondamin, 
Sleeping  in  the  rain  and  sunshine, 
Where  his  scattered  plumes  and  garments 
Faded  in  the  rain  and  sunshine. 

Day  by  day  did  Hiawatha 
Go  to  wait  and  watch  beside  it ; 

Kept  the  dark  mould  soft  above  it, 

Kept  it  clean  from  weeds  and  insects, 
Drove  away,  with  scoffs  and  shoutings, 
Kahgahgee,  the  king  of  ravens. 

Till  at  length  a small  green  feather 
From  the  earth  shot  slowly  upward, 
Then  another  and  another, 

And  before  the  Summer  ended 
Stood  the  maize  in  all  its  beauty, 

With  its  shining  robes  about  it, 

And  its  long,  soft,  yellow  tresses  ; 

And  in  rapture  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud,  4 4 It  is  Mondamin  ! 

Yes,  the  friend  of  man,  Mondamin  ! ” 
Then  he  called  to  old  Nokomis 
And  Iagoo,  the  great  boaster, 

Showed  them  where  the  maize  was  grow- 
ing, 

Told  them  of  his  wondrous  vision, 

Of  his  wrestling  and  his  triumph, 

Of  this  new  gift  to  the  nations, 

Which  should  be  their  food  forever. 

And  still  later,  when  the  Autumn 
Changed  the  long,  green  leaves  to  yellow, 
And  the  soft  and  juicy  kernels 
Grew  like  wampum  hard  and  yellow, 
Then  the  ripened  ears  he  gathered, 
Stripped  the  withered  husks  from  off 
them, 

As  he  once  had  stripped  the  wrestler, 
Gave  the  first  Feast  of  Mondamin, 

And  made  known  unto  the  people 
This  new  gift  of  the  Great  Spirit. 


YI. 

HIAWATHA’S  FRIENDS. 

Two  good  friends  had  Hiawatha, 
Singled  out  from  all  the  others, 


Bound  to  him  in  closest  union, 

And  to  whom  he  gave  the  right  hand 
Of  his  heart,  in  joy  and  sorrow  ; 
Chibiabos,  the  musician, 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind. 
Straight  between  them  ran  the  path- 
way, 

Never  grew  the  grass  upon  it  ; 

Singing  birds,  that  utter  falsehoods, 
Story-tellers,  mischief-makers, 

Found  no  eager  ear  to  listen, 

Could  not  breed  ill-will  between  them, 
For  they  kept  each  other’s  counsel, 
Spake  with  naked  hearts  together, 
Pondering  much  and  much  contriving 
How  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper. 

Most  beloved  by  Hiawatha 
Was  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 

He  the  best  of  all  musicians, 

He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers. 

Beautiful  and  childlike  was  he, 

Brave  as  man  is,  soft  as  woman, 

Pliant  as  a wand  of  willow, 

Stately  as  a deer  with  antlers. 

When  he  sang,  the  village  listened  ; 
All  the  warriors  gathered  round  him, 
All  the  women  came  to  hear  him  ; 

Now  he  stirred  their  souls  to  passion, 
Now  he  melted  them  to  pity. 

From  the  hollow  reeds  he  fashioned 
Flutes  so  musical  and  mellow, 

That  the  brook,  the  Sebowisha, 

Ceased  to  murmur  in  the  woodland, 
That  the  wood-birds  ceased  from  singing. 
And  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 

Ceased  his  chatter  in  the  oak-tree, 

And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 

Sat  upright  to  look  and  listen. 

Yes,  the  brook,  the  Sebowisha, 
Pausing,  said,  44  0 Chibiabos, 

Teach  my  waves  to  flow  in  music, 

Softly  as  your  words  in  singing  ! ” 

Yes,  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
Envious,  said,  4 4 0 Chibiabos, 

Teach  me  tones  as  wild  and  wayward, 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  frenzy  ! ” 

Yes,  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 

Joyous,  said,  44  0 Chibiabos, 

Teach  me  tones  as  sweet  and  tender, 
Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  gladness  ! ” 
And  the  whippoorwill,  Wawonaissa, 
Sobbing,  said,  “0  Chibiabos, 

Teach  me  tones  as  melancholy, 

Teach  me  songs  as  full  of  sadness  ! ” 

All  the  many  sounds  of  nature 
Borrowed  sweetness  from  his  singing  ; 
All  the  hearts  of  men  were  softened 


HIAWATHA’S  FRIENDS. 


155 


By  the  pathos  of  his  music  ; 

For  he  sang  of  peace  and  freedom, 

Sang  of  beauty,  love,  and  longing  ; 

Sang  of  death,  and  life  undying 
In  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 

In  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 

In  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 

Very  dear  to  Hiawatha 
Was  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 

He  the  best  of  all  musicians, 

He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  ; 

For  his  gentleness  he  loved  him, 

And  the  magic  of  his  singing. 

Dear,  too,  unto  Hiawatha 
Was  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 

He  the  strongest  of  all  mortals, 

He  the  mightiest  among  many  ; 

For  his  very  strength  he  loved  him, 

For  his  strength  allied  to  goodness. 

Idle  in  his  youth  was  Kwasind, 

Very  listless,  dull,  and  dreamy, 

Never  played  with  other  children, 

Never  fished  and  never  hunted, 

Not  like  other  children  was  he  ; 

But  they  saw  that  much  he  fasted, 

Much  his  Manito  entreated, 

Much  besought  his  Guardian  Spirit. 

“ Lazy  Kwasind  ! ” said  his  mother, 
“In  my  work  you  never  help  me  ! 

In  the  Summer  you  are  roaming 
Idly  in  the  fields  and  forests  ; 

In  the  Winter  you  are  cowering 
O’er  the  firebrands  in  the  wigwam  ! 

In  the  coldest  days  of  Winter 
I must  break  the  ice  for  fishing  ; 

With  my  nets  you  never  help  me  ! 

At  the  door  my  nets  are  hanging, 
Dripping,  freezing  with  the  water  ; 

Go  and  wring  them,  Yenadiz ze  ! 

Go  and  dry  them  in  the  sunshine  ! ” 
Slowly,  from  the  ashes,  Kwasind 
Rose,  but  made  no  angry  answer  ; 

From  the  lodge  went  forth  in  silence, 
Took  the  nets,  that  hung  together, 
Dripping,  freezing  at  the  doorway, 

Like  a wisp  of  straw  he  wrung  them, 
Like  a wisp  of  straw  he  broke  them, 
Could  not  wring  them  without  breaking, 
Such  the  strength  was  in  his  fingers. 

“Lazy  Kwasind  ! ” said  his  father, 

“ In  the  hunt  you  never  help  me  ; 

Every  bow  you  touch  is  broken, 

Snapped  asunder  every  arrow  ; 

Yet  come  with  me  to  the  forest, 

You  shall  bring  the  hunting  homeward.” 
Down  a narrow  pass  they  wandered, 
Where  a brooklet  led  them  onward, 


Where  the  trail  of  deer  and  bison 
Marked  the  soft  mud  on  the  margin, 

Till  they  found  all  further  passage 
Shut  against  them,  barred  securely 
By  the  trunks  of  trees  uprooted, 

Lying  lengthwise,  lying  crosswise, 

And  forbidding  further  passage. 

“ We  must  go  back,”  said  the  old  man, 
“ O’er  these  logs  we  cannot  clamber  ; 
Not  a woodchuck  could  get  through 
them, 

Not  a squirrel  clamber  o’er  them  ! ” 

And  straightway  his  pipe  he  lighted, 
And  sat  down  to  smoke  and  ponder. 

But  before  his  pipe  was  finished, 

Lo  ! the  path  was  cleared  before  him  ; 
All  the  trunks  had  Kwasind  lifted, 

To  the  right  hand,  to  the  left  hand, 
Shot  the  pine-trees  swift  as  arrows, 
Hurled  the  cedars  light  as  lances. 

“Lazy  Kwasind  ! ” said  the  young  men, 
As  they  sported  in  the  meadow  : 

“ Why  stand  idly  looking  at  us, 

Leaning  on  the  rock  behind  you  ? 

Come  and  wrestle  with  the  others, 

Let  us  pitch  the  quoit  together  ! ” 

Lazy  Kwasind  made  no  answer, 

To  their  challenge  made  no  answer, 

Only  rose,  and,  slowly  turning, 

Seized  the  huge  rock  in  his  fingers, 

Tore  it  from  its  deep  foundation, 

Poised  it  in  the  air  a moment, 

Pitched  it  sheer  into  the  river, 

Sheer  into  the  swift  Pauwating, 

Where  it  still  is  seen  in  Summer. 

Once  as  down  that  foaming  river, 
Down  the  rapids  of  Pauwating, 

Kwasind  sailed  with  his  companions, 

In  the  stream  he  saw  a beaver, 

Saw  Ahmeek,  the  King  of  Beavers,. 
Struggling  with  the  rushing  currents, 
Rising,  sinking  in  the  water. 

Without  speaking,  without  pausing, 
Kwasind  leaped  into  the  river, 

Plunged  beneath  the  bubbling  surface, 
Through  the  whirlpools  chased  the  bea- 
ver, 

Followed  him  among  the  islands, 

Stayed  so  long  beneath  the  water, 

That  his  terrified  companions 
Cried,  “ Alas  ! good  by  to  Kwasind  ! 

We  shall  never  more  see  Kwasind  ! ” 
But  he  reappeared  triumphant, 

And  upon  his  shining  shoulders 
Brought  the  beaver,  dead  and  dripping, 
Brought  the  King  of  all  the  Beavers. 

And  these  two,  as  I have  told  you, 


156 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Were  the  friends  of  Hiawatha, 
Chibiabos,  the  musician. 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind. 
Long  they  lived  in  peace  together. 
Spake  with  naked  hearts  together. 
Pondering  much  and  much  contriving 
How  the  tribes  of  men  might  prosper. 


VII. 

HIAWATHA’S  SAILING. 

“ Give  me  of  your  bark,  0 Birch-Tree ! 
Of  your  yellow  bark,  O Birch-Tree  1 
Growing  by  the  rushing  river. 

Tall  and  stately  in  the  valley  ! 

1 a light  canoe  will  build  me. 

Build  a swift  Oheemaun  for  sailing. 

That  shall  float  upon  the  river. 

Like  a yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 

Like  a yellow  water-lily  1 

“ Lay  aside  yourcloak,  0 Birch-Tree  ! 
Lay  aside  your  white-skin  wrapper. 

For  the  Summer-time  is  coming, 

And  the  sun  is  warm  in  heaven, 

And  you  need  no  white-skin  wrapper  ! ’* 
Thus  aloud' cried  Hiawatha 
In  the  solitary  forest, 

By  the  rushing  Taquamenaw, 

When  the  birds  were  singing  gayly. 

In  the  Moon  of  Leaves  were  singing. 

And  the  sun,  from  sleep  awaking, 
Started  up  and  said,  4<  Behold  me  ? 
Geezis,  the  great  Sun,  behold  me  ! ” 

And  the  tree  with  all  its  branches 
Bustled  in  the  breeze  of  morning. 

Saying,  with  a sigli  of  patience, 

“ Take  my  cloak,  O Hiawatha  ! 5> 

With  his  knife  the  tree  he  girdled  ; 
Just  beneath  its  lowest  branches. 

Just  above  the  roots,  he  cut  it, 

Till  the  sap  came  oozing  outward  ; 

Down  the  trunk,  from  top  to  bottom, 
Sh££r  he  cleft  the  bark  asunder, 

With  a wooden  wedge  he  raised  it, 
Stripped  it  from  the  trunk  unbroken. 

“ Give  me  of  your  boughs,  0 Cedar  ! 
Of  your  strong  and  pliant  branches.. 

My  canoe  to  make  more  steady, 

Make  more  strong  and  firm  beneath  me  !” 
Through  the  summit  of  the  Cedar 
Went  a.  sound,  a cry  of  horror. 

Went  a murmur  of  resistance  ; 

But  it  whispered,  bending  downward, 

“ Take  my  boughs,  O Hiawatha  ! ” 

Down  he  hewed  the  boughs  of  cedar. 


Shaped  them  straightway  to  a frame- 
work, 

Like  two  bows  he  formed  and  shaped 
them. 

Like  two  bended  bows  together. 

“ Give  me  of  your  roots,  0 Tamarack  ! 
Of  your  fibrous  roots,  0 Larch-Tree  ! 

My  canoe  to  bind  together, 

So  to  bind  the  ends  together 
j That  the  water  may  not  enter, 

That  the  river  may  not  wet  me  ! ” 
xVnd  the  Larch,  with  all  its  fibres. 
Shivered  in  the  air  of  morning, 

Touched  his  forehead  with  its  tassels, 
Said,  with  one  long  sigh  of  sorrow, 

“ Take  them  all,  6 Hiawatha  ! ” 

From  the  earth  he  tore  the  fibres, 

Tore  the  tough  roots  of  the  Larch-Tree, 
Closely  sewed  the  bark  together, 

Bound  it  closely  to  the  framework. 

Give  me  of  your  balm,  0 Fir-Tree  ! 

Of  your  balsam  and  your  resin. 

So  to  close  the  seams  together 
That  the  water  may  not  enter, 

That  the  river  may  not  wet  me  ! ” 

And  the  Fir-Tree,  tall  and  sombre. 
Sobbed  through  all  its  robes  of  darkness. 
Battled  like  a shore  with  pebbles, 
Answered  wailing,  answered  weeping, 
“Take  my  balm,  0 Hiawatha  ! ” 

And  he  took  the  tears  of  balsam. 

Took  the  resin  of  the  Fir-Tree, 

Smeared  therewith  each  seam  and  fissure, 
Made  each  crevice  safe  from  "water. 

4 ‘ Give  me  of  your  quills,  0 Hedgehog ! 
All  your  quills,  0 Kagh,  the  Hedgehog  ! 
1 will  make  a necklace  of  them. 

Make  a girdle  for  my  beauty, 

And  two  stars  to  deck  her  bosom  ! ” 
From  a hollow  tree  the  Hedgehog 
With  his  sleepy  eyes  looked  at  him. 
Shot  his  shining  quills,  like  arrows, 
Saying,  with  a drowsy  murmur, 

Through  the  tangle  of  his  whiskers, 
“Take  my  quills,  0 Hiawatha  !” 

From  the  ground  the  quills  he  gathered, 
All  the  little  shining  arrows, 

Stained  them  red  and  blue  and  yellow, 
With  the  juice  of  roots  and  berries  ; 

Into  his  canoe  he  wrought  them. 

Bound  its  waist  a shining  piidle. 

Bound  its  bows  a gleaming  necklace. 

On  its  breast  two  stars  resplendent. 

Thus  the  Birch  Canoe  was  builded 
In  the  valley,  by  the  river, 

In  the  bosom  of  the  forest  ; 

And  the  forest’s  life  was  in  it. 


HIAWATHA’S  FISHING. 


157 


All  its  mystery  and  its  magic, 

All  the  lightness  of  the  birch-tree, 

All  the  toughness  of  the  cedar, 

All  the  larch’s  supple  sinews  ; 

And  it  floated  on  the  river 
Like  a yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 

Like  a yellow  water-lily- 

Paddles  none  had  Hiawatha, 

Paddles  none  he  had  or  needed, 

For  his  thoughts  as  paddles  served  him, 
And  his  wishes  served  to  guide  him  ; 
Swift  or  slow  at  will  he  glided. 

Veered  to  right  or  left  at  pleasure. 

Then  he  called  aloud  to  Kwasind, 

To  his  friend,  the  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
Saying,  “ Help  me  clear  this  river 
Of  its  sunken  logs  and  sand-bars.” 

Straight  into  the  river  Kwasind 
Plunged  as  if  he  were  an  otter, 

Dived  as  if  he  were  a beaver, 

Stood  up  to  his  waist  in  water, 

To  his  arm-pits  in  the  river, 

Swam  and  shouted  in  the  river, 

Tugged  at  sunken  logs  and  branches, 
With  his  hands  he  scooped  the  sand-bars, 
With  his  feet  the  ooze  and  tangle. 

And  thus  sailed  my  Hiawatha 
Do  wn  the  rushing  Taquamenaw, 

Sailed  through  all  its  bends  and  windings, 
Sailed  through  all  its  deeps  and  shallows, 
While  his  friend,  the  strong  man,  Kwa- 
sind, 

Swam  the  deeps,  the  shallows  waded. 

Up  and  down  the  river  went  they, 

In  and  out  among  its  islands, 

Cleared  its  bed  of  root  and  sand-bar, 
Dragged  the  dead  trees  from  its  channel, 
Made  its  passage  safe  and  certain, 

Made  a pathway  for  the  people, 

From  its  springs  among  the  mountains, 
To  the  waters  of  Pauwating, 

To  the  bay  of  Taquamenaw. 


VIII. 

hiawatha’s  fishing. 

Forth  upon  the  Gitche  Gurnee, 

Ou  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water, 

With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar, 

Of  the  twisted  bark  of  cedar, 

Forth  to  catch  the  sturgeon  Nahma, 
Mishe-Hahriia,  King  of  Fishes, 

In  his  birch  canoe  exulting 
All  alone  went  Hiawatha. 

Through  the  clear,  transparent  water 


He  could  see  the  fishes  swimming 
Far  down  in  the  depths  below  him  ; 

See  the  yellow  perch,  the  Sahwa, 

Like  a sunbeam  in  the  water, 

See  the  Shawgashee,  the  craw-fish, 

Like  a spider  on  the  bottom, 

On  the  white  and  sandy  bottom. 

At  the  stern  sat  Hiawatha, 

With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar  ; 

In  his  plumes  the  breeze  of  morning 
Played  as  in  the  hemlock  branches  ; 

On  the  bows,  with  tail  erected, 

Sat  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo  ; 

In  his  fur  the  breeze  of  morning 
Played  as  in  the  prairie  grasses. 

On  the  white  sand  of  the  bottom 
Lay  the  monster  Mishe-Hahma, 

Lay  the  sturgeon,  King  of  Fishes  ; 
Through  his  gills  he  breathed  the  water, 
With  his  fins  he  fanned  and  winnowed, 
With  his  tail  he  swept  the  sand-floor. 

There  he  lay  in  all  his  armor  ; 

On  each  side  a shield  to  guard  him, 
Plates  of  bone  upon  his  forehead, 

Down  his  sides  and  back  and  shoulders 
Plates  of  bone  with  spines  projecting  ! 
Painted  was  he  with  liis  war-paints, 
Stripes  of  yellow,  red,  and  azure, 

Spots  of  brown  and  spots  of  sable  ; 

And  he  lay  there  on  the  bottom, 
Fanning  with  his  fins  of  purple, 

As  above  him  Hiawatha 
In  his  birch  canoe  came  sailing, 

With  his  fishing-line  of  cedar. 

“Take  my  bait,”  cried  Hiawatha, 
Down  into  the  depths  beneath  him, 

“ Take  my  bait,  0 Sturgeon,  Nalima  ! 
Come  up  from  below  the  water, 

Let  us  see  which  is  the  stronger  ! ” 

And  he  dropped  his  line  of  cedar 
Through  the  clear,  transparent  water, 
Waited  vainly  for  an  answer, 

Long  sat  waiting  for  an  answer, 

And  repeating  loud  and  louder, 

“Take  my  bait,  0 King  of  Fishes  !” 

Quiet  lay  the  sturgeon,  Xahma, 
Fanning  slowly  in  the  water, 

Looking  up  at  Hiawatha, 

Listening  to  his  call  and  clamor, 

His  unnecessary  tumult, 

Till  he  wearied  of  the  shouting  ; 

[ And  he  said  to  the  Kenozha, 

To  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 

“Take  the  bait  of  this  rude  fellow, 

| Break  the  line  of  Hiawatha  ! ” 

In  his  fingers  Hiawatha 
Felt  the  loose  line  jerk  and  tighten  ; 


158 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


As  he  drew  it  in,  it  tugged  so 
That  the  birch  canoe  stood  endwise, 

Like  a birch  log  in  the  water, 

With  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 

Perched  and  frisking  on  the  summit. 

Full  of  scorn  was  Hiawatha 
When  he  saw  the  fish  rise  upward, 

Saw  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 

Coming  nearer,  nearer  to  him, 

And  he  shouted  through  the  water, 

“ Esa  ! esa  ! shame  upon  you  ! 

You  are  but  the  pike,  Kenozha, 

You  are  not  the  fish  I wanted, 

You  are  not  the  King  of  Fishes  ! ” 

Peeling  downward  to  the  bottom 
Sank  the  pike  in  great  confusion, 

And  the  mighty  sturgeon,  Nahma, 

Said  to  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 

To  the  bream,  with  scales  of  crimson, 
“Take  the  bait  of  this  great  boaster, 
Break  the  line  of  Hiawatha  ! ” 

Slowly  upward,  wavering,  gleaming, 
Rose  the  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 

Seized  the  line  of  Hiawatha, 

Swung  with  all  his  weight  upon  it, 

Made  a whirlpool  in  the  water, 

Whirled  the  birch  canoe  in  circles, 
Round  and  round  in  gurgling  eddies, 
Till  the  circles  in  the  water 
Reached  the  far-off  sandy  beaches, 

Till  the  water-flags  and  rushes 
Nodded  on  the  distant  margins. 

But  when  Hiawatha  saw  him 
Slowly  rising  through  the  water, 

Lifting  up  his  disk  refulgent, 

Loud  he  shouted  in  derision, 

‘ ‘ Esa  ! esa  ! shame  upon  you  ! 

You  are  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 

You  are  not  the  fish  I wanted, 

You  are  not  the  King  of  Fishes  ! ” 

Slowly  downward,  wavering,  gleam- 
ing, 

Sank  the  Ugudwash,  the  sun-fish, 

And  again  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 

Heard  the  shout  of  Hiawatha, 

Heard  his  challenge  of  defiance, 

The  unnecessary  tumult, 

Ringing  far  across  the  water. 

From  the  white  sand  of  the  bottom 
Up  he  rose  with  angry  gesture, 
Quivering  in  each  nerve  and  fibre, 
Clashing  all  his  plates  of  armor, 
Gleaming  bright  with  all  his  war-paint ; 
In  his  wrath  he  darted  upward, 

Flashing  leaped  into  the  sunshine, 
Opened  his  great  jaws,  and  swallowed 
Both  canoe  and  Hiawatha. 


Down  into  that  darksome  cavern 
Plunged  the  headlong  Hiawatha, 

As  a log  on  some  black  river 
Shoots  and  plunges  down  the  rapids, 
Found  himself  in  utter  darkness, 

Groped  about  in  helpless  wonder. 

Till  he  felt  a great  heart  beating, 
Throbbing  in  that  utter  darkness. 

And  he  smote  it  in  his  anger, 

With  his  fist,  the  heart  of  Nahma, 

Felt  the  mighty  King  of  Fishes 
Shudder  through  each  nerve  and  fibre, 
Heard  the  water  gurgle  round  him 
As  he  leaped  and  staggered  through  it, 
Sick  at  heart,  and  faint  and  weary. 

Crosswise  then  did  Hiawatha 
Drag  his  birch-canoe  for  safety, 

Lest  from  out  the  jaws  of  Nahma, 

In  the  turmoil  and  confusion, 

Forth  he  might  be  hurled  and  perish. 
And  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 

Frisked  and  chattered  very  gayly, 

Toiled  and  tugged  with  Hiawatha 
Till  the  labor  was  completed. 

Then  said  Hiawatha  to  him, 

“ 0 my  little  friend,  the  squirrel, 
Bravely  have  you  toiled  to  help  me  ; 
Take  the  thanks  of  Hiawatha, 

And  the  name  which  now  he  gives  you ; 
For  hereafter  and  forever 
Boys  shall  call  you  Adjidaumo, 
Tail-in-air  the  boys  shall  call  you  ! ” 

And  again  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
Gasped  and  quivered  in  the  water, 

Then  was  still,  and  drifted  landward 
Till  he  grated  on  the  pebbles, 

Till  the  listening  Hiawatha 
Heard  him  grate  upon  the  margin, 

Felt  him  strand  upon  the  pebbles, 

Knew  that  Nahma,  King  of  Fishes, 

Lay  there  dead  upon  the  margin. 

Then  he  heard  a clang  and  flapping, 
As  of  many  wings  assembling, . 

Heard  a screaming  and  confusion, 

As  of  birds  of  prey  contending, 

Saw  a gleam  of  light  above  him, 

Shining  through  the  ribs  of  Nahma, 
Saw  the  glittering  eyes  of  sea-gulls, 

Of  Kayoslik,  the  sea-gulls,  peering, 
Gazing  at  him  through  the  opening, 
Heard  them  saying  to  each  other, 

“ ’T  is  our  brother,  Hiawatha  ! ” 

And  he  shouted  from  below  them, 
Cried  exulting  from  the  caverns  : 

“ 0 ye  sea-gulls  ! 0 m)r  brothers  ! 

I have  slain  the  sturgeon,  Nahma  ; 
Make  the  rifts  a little  larger, 


HIAWATHA  AND  THE  PEARL-FEATHER. 


159 


With  your  claws  the  openings  widen, 
Set  me  free  from  this  dark  prison, 

And  henceforward  and  forever 

Men  shall  speak  of  your  achievements, 

Calling  you  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls, 

Yes,  Kayoshk,  the  Noble  Scratchers  !” 
And  the  wild  and  clamorous  sea- 
gulls 

Toiled  with  beak  and  claws  together, 
Made  the  rifts  and  openings  wider 
In  the  mighty  ribs  of  Nahma, 

And  from  peril  and  from  prison, 

From  the  body  of  the  sturgeon, 

From  the  peril  of  the  water, 

They  released  my  Hiawatha. 

He  was  standing  near  his  wigwam, 

On  the  margin  of  the  water, 

And  he  called  to  old  Nokomis, 

Called  and  beckoned  to  Nokomis, 
Pointed  to  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 

Lying  lifeless  on  the  pebbles, 

With  the  sea-gulls  feeding  on  him. 

44 1 have  slain  the  Mishe-Nahma, 
Slain  the  King  of  Fishes  ! ” said  he  ; 

44  Look  ! the  sea-gulls  feed  upon  him, 
Yes,  my  friends  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gulls  ; 
Drive  them  not  away,  Nokomis, 

They  have  saved  me  from  great  peril 
In  the  body  of  the  sturgeon, 

Wait  until  their  meal  is  ended, 

Till  their  craws  are  full  with  feast- 

Till  they  homeward  fly,  at  sunset, 

To  their  nests  among  the  marshes  ; 

Then  bring  all  your  pots  and  kettles, 
And  make  oil  for  us  in  Winter.” 

And  she  waited  till  the  sun  set, 

Till  the  pallid  moon,  the  Night-sun, 
Rose  above  the  tranquil  water, 

Till  Kayoshk,  the  sated  sea-gulls, 

From  their  banquet  rose  with  clamor, 
And  across  the  fiery  sunset 
Winged  their  way  to  far-off  islands, 

To  their  nests  among  the  rushes. 

To  his  sleep  went  Hiawatha, 

And  Nokomis  to  her  labor, 

Toiling  patient  in  the  moonlight, 

Till  the  sun  and  moon  changed  places, 
Till  the  sky  was  red  with  sunrise, 

And  Kayoshk,  the  hungry  sea-gulls, 
Came  back  from  the  reedy  islands, 
Clamorous  for  their  morning  banquet. 

Three  whole  days  and  nights  alternate 
Old  Nokomis  and  the  sea-gulls 
Stripped  the  oily  flesh  of  Nahma, 

Till  the  waves  washed  through  the  rib- 
bones, 


Till  the  sea-gulls  came  no  longer, 
And  upon  the  sands  lay  nothing 
But  the  skeleton  of  Nahma. 


IX. 

HIAWATHA  AND  THE  PEARL-FEATHER. 

On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gurnee, 

Of  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water, 

Stood  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Pointing  with  her  finger  westward, 

O’er  the  water  pointing  westward, 

To  the  purple  clouds  of  sunset. 

Fiercely  the  red  sun  descending 
Burned  his  way  along  the  heavens, 

Set  the  sky  on  fire  behind  him, 

As  war-parties,  when  retreating, 

Burn  the  prairies  on  their  war-trail ; 
And  the  moon,  the  Night-sun,  eastward, 
Suddenly  starting  from  his  ambush, 
Followed  fast  those  bloody  footprints. 
Followed  in  that  fiery  war-trail, 

With  its  glare  upon  his  features. 

And  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Pointing  with  her  finger  westward, 
Spake  these  words  to  Hiawatha  : 

44  Yonder  dwells  the  great  Pearl-Feather, 
Megissogwon,  the  Magician, 

Manito  of  Wealth  and  Wampum, 
Guarded  by  his  fiery  serpents, 

Guarded  by  the  black  pitch-water. 

You  can  see  his  fiery  serpents, 

The  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpents, 
Coiling,  playing  in  the  water  ; 

You  can  see  the  black  pitch-water 
Stretching  far  away  beyond  them, 

To  the  purple  clouds  of  sunset  ! 

44  He  it  was  who  slew  my  father, 

By  his  wicked  wiles  and  cunning, 

When  he  from  the  moon  descended, 
When  he  came  on  earth  to  seek  me. 

He,  the  mightiest  of  Magicians, 

Sends  the  fever  from  the  marshes, 

Sends  the  pestilential  vapors, 

Sends  the  poisonous  exhalations, 

Sends  the  white  fog  from  the  fen-lands, 
Sends  disease  and  death  among  us  ! 

44  Take  your  bow,  0 Hiawatha, 

Take  your  arrows,  jasper-headed, 

Take  your  war-club,  Puggawaugun, 

And  your  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 

And  your  birch -canoe  for  sailing, 

And  the  oil  of  Mishe-Nahma, 

So  to  smear  its  sides,  that  swiftly 
You  may  pass  the  black  pitch- water ; 


160 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Slay  this  merciless  magician, 

Save  the  people  from  the  fever 
That  he  breathes  across  the  fen-lands, 
And  avenge  my  father’s  murder  ! ” 
Straightway  then  my  Hiawatha 
Armed  himself  with  all  his  war-gear, 
Launched  his  birch-canoe  for  sailing  ; 
With  his  palm  its  sides  he  patted, 

Said  with  glee,  “ Cheemaun,  my  darling, 
0 my  Birch- Canoe  ! leap  forward, 

Where  you  see  the  fiery  serpents, 

Where  you  see  the  black  pitch-water  ! * 
Forward  leaped  Cheemaun  exulting, 
And  the  noble  Hiawatha 
Sang  his  war-song  wild  and  woful, 

And  above  him  the  war-eagle, 

The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 

Master  of  all  fowls  with  feathers, 
Screamed  and  hurtled  through  the  heav- 
ens. 

Soon  he  reached  the  fiery  serpents, 
The  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpents, 

Lying  huge  upon  the  water, 

Sparkling,  rippling  in  the  water, 

Lying  coiled  across  the  passage, 

With  their  blazing  crests  uplifted, 
Breathing  fiery  fogs  and  vapors, 

So  that  none  could  pass  beyond  them. 

But  the  fearless  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud,  and  spake  in  this  wise  : 

‘ 4 Let  me  pass  my  way,  Kenabeek, 

Let  me  go  upon  my  journey  ! ” 

And  they  answered,  hissing  fiercely, 
With  their  fiery  breath  made  answer  : 

“ Back,  go  back  ! 0 Shaugodaya  ! 

Back  to  old  Nokomis,  Faint-heart  ! ” 
Then  the  angry  Hiawatha 
Raised  his  mighty  bow  of  ash -tree, 
Seized  his  arrows,  jasper-headed, 

Shot  them  fast  among  the  serpents  ; 
Every  twanging  of  the  bow-string 
Was  a war-cry  and  a death-cry, 

Every  whizzing  of  an  arrow 
Was  a death-song  of  Kenabeek. 

Weltering  in  the  bloody  water, 

Dead  lay  all  the  fiery  serpents. 

And  among  them  Hiawatha 
Harmless  sailed,  and  cried  exulting  : 
“Onward,  0 Cheemaun,  my  darling  ! 
Onward  to  the  black  pitch -water  ! ” 
Then  he  took  the  oil  of  Nahma, 

And  the  bows  and  sides  anointed, 
Smeared  them  well  with  oil,  that  swiftly 
He  might  pass  the  black  pitch -water. 

All  night  long  he  sailed  upon  it, 
Sailed  upon  that  sluggish  water, 

Covered  with  its  mould  of  ages. 


Black  with  rotting  water-rushes, 

Rank  with  flags  and  leaves  of  lilies, 
Stagnant,  lifeless,  dreary,  dismal, 
Lighted  by  the  shimmering  moonlight. 
And  by  will-o’-the-wisps  illumined, 

Fires  by  ghosts  of  dead  men  kindled, 

In  their  weary  night-encampments. 

All  the  air  was  white  with  moonlight, 
All  the  water  black  with  shadow, 

And  around  him  the  Suggema, 

The  mosquito,  sang  his  war-song. 

And  the  fire-flies,  Wah-wah-taysee, 
Waved  their  torches  to  mislead  him  ; 
And  the  bull-frog,  the  Dahinda, 

Thrust  his  head  into  the  moonlight, 
Fixed  his  yellow  eyes  upon  him, 

Sobbed  and  sank  beneath  the  surface  ; 
And  anon  a thousand  whistles, 
Answered  over  all  the  fen-lands, 

And  the  heron,  the  Shuh-sliuh-gah, 

Far  off  on  the  reedy  margin, 

Heralded  the  hero’s  coming. 

Westward  thus  fared  Hiawatha, 
Toward  the  realm  of  Megissogwon, 
Toward  the  land  of  the  Pearl-Feather, 
Till  the  level  moon  stared  at  him, 

In  his  face  stared  pale  and  haggard, 

Till  the  sun  was  hot  behind  him, 

Till  it  burned  upon  his  shoulders, 

And  before  him  on  the  upland 
He  could  see  the  Shining  Wigwam 
Of  the  Manito  of  Wampum, 

Of  the  mightiest  of  Magicians. 

Then  once  more  Cheemaun  he  patted, 
To  his  birch-canoe  said,  “ Onward  ! ” 
And  it  stirred  in  all  its  fibres, 

And  with  one  great  bound  of  triumph 
Leaped  across  the  water-lilies, 

Leaped  through  tangled  flags  and  rushes, 
And  upon  the  beach  bejmnd  them 
Dry-shod  landed  Lliawatha. 

Straight  he  took  his  bow  of  ash-tree, 
On  the  sand  one  end  he  rested, 

With  his  knee  he  pressed  the  middle, 
Stretched  the  faithful  bow-string  tighter, 
Took  an  arrow,  jasper-headed, 

Shot  it  at  the  Shining  Wigwam, 

Sent  it  singing  as  a herald, 

As  a bearer  of  his  message, 

Of  his  challenge  loud  and  lofty  : 

‘ ‘ Come  forth  from  your  lodge,  Pearl- 
Feather  ! 

Hiawatha  waits  your  coming  ! ” 

Straightway  from  the  Shining  Wigwam 
Came  the  mighty  Megissogwon, 

Tall  of  stature,  broad  of  shoulder, 

Dark  and  terrible  in  aspect, 


HIAWATHA  AND  THE  PEARL-FEATHER. 


161 


Clad  from  head  to  foot  in  wampum, 
Armed  with  all  his  warlike  weapons, 
Painted  like  the  sky  of  morning, 
Streaked  with  crimson,  blue,  and  yellow, 
Crested  with  great  eagle-feathers, 
Streaming  upward,  streaming  outward. 

“ Well  I know  you,  Hiawatha  ! ” 
Cried  he  in  a voice  of  thunder, 

In  a tone  of  loud  derision. 

“ Hasten  back,  0 Shaugodaya  ! 

Hasten  back  among  the  women, 

Back  to  old  Nokomis,  Faint-heart ! 

1 will  slay  you  as  you  stand  there, 

As  of  old  l .slew  her  father  ! ” 

But  my  Hiawatha  answered, 

Nothing  daunted,  fearing  nothing  : 

“ Big  words  do  not  smite  like  war-clubs, 
Boastful  breath  is  not  a bow-string, 
Taunts  are  not  so  sharp  as  arrows, 

Deeds  are  better  things  than  words  are, 
Actions  mightier  than  boastings  ! ” 

Then  began  the  greatest  battle 
That  the  sun  had  ever  looked  on, 

That  the  war-birds  ever  witnessed. 

All  a Summer’s  day  it  lasted, 

From  the  sunrise  to  the  sunset ; 

For  the  shafts  of  Hiawatha 
Harmless  hit  the  shirt  of  wampum, 
Harmless  fell  the  blows  he  dealt  it 
With  his  mit'tens,  Minjekahwun, 
Harmless  fell  the  heavy  war-club  ; 

It  could  dash  the  rocks  asunder, 

But  it  could  not  break  the  meshes 
Of  that  magic  shirt  of  wampum. 

Till  at  sunset  Hiawatha, 

Leaning  on  his  bov  of  ash -tree, 
Wounded,  weary,  and  desponding, 

With  his  mighty  war-club  broken, 

With  his  mittens  torn  and  tattered, 

And  three  useless  arrows  only, 

Paused  to  rest  beneath  a pine-tree, 

From  whose  branches  trailed  the  mosses, 
And  whose  trunk  was  coated  over 
With  the  Dead-man’s  Moccasin -leather, 
With  the  fungus  white  and  yellow. 

Suddenly  from  the  boughs  above  him 
Sang  the  Mama,  the  woodpecker  : 

“ Aim  your  arrows,  Hiawatha, 

At  the  head  of  Megissogwon, 

Strike  the  tuft  of  hair  upon  it, 

At  their  roots  the  long  black  tresses  ; 
There  alone  can  he  be  wounded  ! ” 

Winged  with  feathers,  tipped  with  jas- 
per, 

Swift  flew  Hiawatha’s  arrow, 

Just  as  Megissogwon,  stooping, 

Raised  a heavy  stone  to  throw  it. 

"11 


Full  upon  the  crown  it  struck  him, 

At  the  roots  of  his  long  tresses, 

And  he  reeled  and  staggered  forward, 
Plunging  like  a wounded  bison, 

Yes,  like  Pezhekee,  the  bison, 

When  the  snow  is  on  the  prairie. 

Swifter  flew  the  second  arrow, 

In  the  pathway  of  the  other, 

Piercing  deeper  than  the  other, 
Wounding  sorer  than  the  other; 

And  the  knees  of  Megissogwon 
Shook  like  windy  reeds  beneath  him, 
Bent  and  trembled  like  the  rushes. 

But  the  third  and  latest  arrow 
Swiftest  flew,  and  wounded  sorest, 

And  the  mighty  Megissogwon 
Saw  the  fiery  eyes  of  Pauguk, 

Saw  the  eyes  of  Death  glare  at  him, 
Heard  his  voice  call  in  the  darkness  ; 

At  the  feet  of  Hiawatha 

Lifeless  lay  the  great.  Pearl-F eather, 

Lav  the  mightiest  of  Magicians. 

Then  the  grateful  Hiawatha 
Called  the  Mama,  the  woodpecker, 

From  his  perch  among  the  branches 
Of  the  melancholy  pine-tree, 

And,  in  honor  of  his  service, 

Stained  with  blood  the  tuft  of  feathers 
On  the  little  head  of  Mama  ; 

Even  to  this  day  he  wears  it, 

Wears  the  tuft  of  crimson  feathers, 

Asa  symbol  of  his  service. 

Then  he  stripped  the  shirt  of  wampum 
From  the  back  of  Megissogwon, 

As  a trophy  of  the  battle, 

As  a signal  of  his  conquest. 

On  the  shore  he  left  the  body, 

Half  on  land  and  half  in  water, 

In  the  sand  his  feet  were  buried, 

And  bis  face  was  in  the  water. 

And  above  him,  wheeled  and  clamored 
The-Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 

Sailing  round  in  narrower  circles, 
Hovering  nearer,  nearer,  nearer. 

From  the  wigwam  Hiawatha 
Bore  the  wealth  of  Megissogwon, 

All  his  wealth  of  skins  and  wampum, 
Furs  of  bison  and  of  beaver, 

Furs  of  sable  and  of  ermine, 

Wampum  belts  and  strings  and  pouches, 
Quivers  wrought  with  beads  of  wampum, 
Filled  with  arrows,  silver-headed. 

Homeward  then  he  sailed  exulting, 
Homeward  through  the  black  pitch- 
water, 

Homeward  through  the  weltering  ser- 
pents, 


162 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA, 


With  the  trophies  of  the  battle, 

With  a shout  and  song  of  triumph. 

On  the  shore  stood  old  Nokomis, 

On  the  shore  stood  Chibiabos, 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
Waiting  for  the  hero’s  coming, 
Listening  to  his  song  of  triumph. 

And  the  people  of  the  village 
Welcomed  him  with  songs  and  dances, 
Made  a joyous  feast,  and  shouted  : 

“ Honor  be  to  Hiawatha  ! 

He  has  slain  the  great  Pearl -Feather, 
Slain  the  mightiest  of  Magicians, 

Him,  who  sent  the  hery  fever, 

Sent  the  wdiite  fog  from  the  fen-lands, 
Sent  disease  and  death  among  us  ! ” 

Ever  dear  to  Hiawatha 
Was  the  memory  of  Mama  ! 

And  in  token  of  his  friendship, 

As  a mark  of  his  remembrance. 

He  adorned  and  decked  his  pipe-stem 
With  the  crimson  tuft  of  feathers, 
With  the  blood-red  crest  of  Mama. 

But  the  wealth  of  Megissogwon, 

All  the  trophies  of  the  battle, 

He  divided  with  his  people, 

Shared  it  equally  among  them. 


X. 

hiawatha’s  wooing. 

**  As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is. 

So  unto  the  man  is  woman, 

Though  she  bends  him,  she  obeys  him, 
Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows, 
Useless  each  without  the  other  ! ” 

Thus  the  youthful  Hiawatha 
Said  within  himself  and  pondered, 
Much  perplexed  by  various  feelings, 
Listless,  longing,  hoping,  fearing, 
Breaming  still  of  Minnehaha, 

Of  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 

In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs. 

“Weda  maiden  of  your  people,” 
Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis  ; 

“ Go  not  eastward,  go  not  westward, 
For  a stranger,  whom  we  know  not  ! 
Like  a fire  upon  the  hearth -stone 
Is  a neighbor’s  homely  daughter, 

Like  the  starlight  or  the  moonlight 
Is  the  handsomest  of  strangers  ! ” 

Thus  dissuading  spake  N okomis, 

And  my  Hiawatha  answered 
Only  this  : “ Dear  old  Nokomis, 

Very  pleasant  is  the  firelight, 


But  I like  the  starlight  better, 

Better  do  I like  the  moonlight  ! ” 
Gravely  then  said  old  Nokomis  : 

“ Bring  not  here  an  idle  maiden, 

Bring  not  here  a useless  woman, 

Hands  unskilful,  feet  unwilling  ; 

Bring  a wife  with  nimble  fingers, 

Heart  and  hand  that  move  together, 
Feet  that  run  on  willing  errands  ! ” 
Smiling  answered  Hiawatha  : 

“ In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs 
Lives  the  Arrow -maker’s  daughter, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women. 

I will  bring  her  to  your  wigwam, 

She  shall  run  upon  your  errands, 

Be  your  starlight,  moonlight,  firelight, 
Be  the  sunlight  of  my  people  ! ” 

Still  dissuading  said  Nokomis  : 

“ Bring  not  to  my  lodge  a stranger 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ! 

Very  fierce  are  the  Dacotahs, 

Often  is  there  war  between  us, 

There  are  feuds  yet  unforgotten, 

Wounds  that  ache  and  still  may  open  ! * 
Laughing  answered  Hiawatha : 

“For  that  reason,  if  no  other. 

Would  1 wed  the  fair  Dacotah, 

That  our  tribes  might  be  united. 

That  old  feuds  might  be  forgotten, 

And  old  wounds  be  healed  forever  ! ” 
Thus  departed  Hiawatha 
To  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

To  the  land  of  handsome  women  ; 
Striding  over  moor  and  meadow, 
Through  interminable  forests, 

Through  uninterrupted  silence. 

With  his  moccasins  of  magic, 

At  each  stride  a mile  he  measured  ; 

Yet  the  way  seemed  long  before  him. 
And  his  heart  outran  his  footsteps  ; 

And  he  journeyed  without  resting, 

Till  he  heard  the  cataract’s  laughter. 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  through  the  silence. 

“ Pleasant  is  the  sound  ! ” he  murmured, 
“ Pleasant  is  the  voice  that  calls  me  !” 
On  the  outskirts  of  the  forest, 

’Twixt  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine. 
Herds  of  fallow  deer  were  feeding, 

But  they  saw  not  Hiawatha  ; 

To  his  bow  he  whispered,  “ Fail  not ! ” 
To  his  arrow  whispered,  “ Swerve  not !” 
Sent  it  singing  on  its  errand, 

To  the  red  heart  of  the  roebuck  ; 

Threw  the  deer  across  his  shoulder, 

And  sped  forward  without  pausing. 


HIAWATHA’S  WOOING. 


163 


At  tlie  doorway  of  his  wigwam 
Sat  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 

In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

Making  arrow-heads  of  jasper, 
Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony. 

At  his  side,  in  all  her  beauty, 

Sat  the  lovely  Minnehaha, 

Sat  his  daughter,  Laughing  Water, 
Plaiting  mats  of  flags  and  rushes  ; 

Of  the  past  the  old  man’s  thoughts  were, 
And  the  maiden’s  of  the  future. 

He  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  there, 

Of  the  days  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison, 

On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow  ; 

Shot  the  wild  goose,  flying  southward, 
On  the  wing,  the  clamorous  Wawa  ; 
Thinking  of  the  great  war-parties, 

How  they  came  to  buy  his  arrows, 

Could  not  fight  without  his  arrows. 

Ah,  no  more  such  noble  warriors 
Could  be  found  on  earth  as  they  were  ! 
Now  the  men  were  all  like  women, 

Only  used  their  tongues  for  weapons  ! 

She  was  thinking  of  a hunter, 

From  another  tribe  and  country, 

Young  and  tall  and  very  handsome, 

Who  one  morning,  in  the  Spring-time, 
Came  to  buy  her  father’s  arrows, 

Sat  and  rested  in  the  wigwam, 

Lingered  long  about  the  doorway, 
Looking  back  as  he  departed. 

She  had  heard  her  father  praise  him, 
Praise  his  courage  and  his  wisdom  ; 
Would  he  come  again  for  arrows 
To  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha  ? 

On  the  mat  her  hands  lay  idle, 

And  her  eyes  were  very  dreamy. 

Through  their  thoughts  they  heard  a 
footstep, 

Heard  a rustling  in  the  branches, 

And  with  glowing  cheek  and  forehead, 
With  the  deer  upon  his  shoulders, 
Suddenly  from  out  the  woodlands 
Hiawatha  stood  before  them. 

Straight  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Looked  up  gravely  from  his  labor, 

Laid  aside  the  unfinished  arrow, 

Bade  him  enter  at  the  doorway, 

Saying,  as  he  rose  to  meet  him, 

“ Hiawatha,  you  are  welcome  ! ” 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 

Threw  the  red  deer  from  his  shoulders  ; 
And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him, 
Looked  up  from  her  mat  of  rushes, 

Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent, 


“You  are  welcome,  Hiawatha  ! ” 

Very  spacious  was  the  wigwam, 

Made  of  deer-skin  dressed  and  whitened, 
With  the  Gods  of  the  Dacotahs 
Drawn  and  painted  on  its  curtains, 

And  so  tall  the  doorway,  hardly 
Hiawatha  stooped  to  enter, 

Hardly  touched  his  eagle-feathers 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway. 

Then  uprose  the  Laughing  Water, 
From  the  ground  fair  Minnehaha, 

Laid  aside  her  mat  unfinished, 

Brought  forth  food  and  set  before  them, 
Water  brought  them  from  the  brooklet, 
Gave  them  food  in  earthen  vessels, 

Gave  them  drink  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking, 
Listened  while  her  father  answered, 

But  not  once  her  lips  she  opened, 

Not  a single  word  she  uttered. 

Yes,  as  in  a dream  she  listened 
To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 

As  he  talked  of  old  Nokomis, 

Who  had  nursed  him  in  his  childhood, 
As  he  told  of  his  companions, 

Chibiabos,  the  musician, 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 
And  of  happiness  and  plenty 
In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 

In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful. 

‘ ‘ After  many  years  of  warfare, 

Many  years  of  strife  and  bloodshed, 
There  is  peace  between  the  Ojibways 
And  the  tribe  of  the  Dacotahs.” 

Thus  continued  Hiawatha, 

And  then  added,  speaking  slowly, 

“ That  this  peace  may  last  forever. 

And  our  hands  be  clasped  more  closely, 
And  our  hearts  be  more  united, 

Give  me  as  my  wife  this  maiden, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 

Loveliest  of  Dacotah  women  ! ” 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Paused  a moment  ere  he  answered. 
Smoked  a little  while  in  silence, 

Looked  at  Hiawatha  proudly, 

Fondly  looked  at  Laughing  Water, 

And  made  answer  very  gravely  : 

“Yes,  if  Minnehaha  wishes  ; 

Let  your  heart  speak,  Minnehaha  ! ” 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Seemed  more  lovely,  as  she  stood  there, 
Neither  willing  nor  reluctant, 

As  she  went  to  Hiawatha, 

Softly  took  the  seat  beside  him, 

While  she  said,  and  blushed  to  say  it, 

“ I will  follow  you,  my  husband  ! ” 


164 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


This  was  Hiawatha’s  wooing  ! 

Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 

In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ! 

From  the  wigwam  he  departed, 
Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water  ; 
Hand  in  hand  they  went  together, 
Through  the  woodland  and  the  meadow, 
Left  the  old  man  standing  lonely 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 

Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  them  from  the  distance, 
Crying  to  them  from  afar  off, 

“ Fare  thee  well,  0 Minnehaha  ! ” 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Turned  again  unto  his  labor, 

Sat  down  by  his  sunny  doorway, 
Murmuring  to  himself,  and  saying  : 

“ Thus  it  is  our  daughters  leave  us, 
Those  we  love,  and  those  who  love  us  ! 
Just  when  they  have  learned  to  help  us, 
When  we  are  old  and  lean  upon  them, 
Comes  a youth  with  flaunting  feathers, 
With  his  flute  of  reeds,  a stranger 
Wanders  piping  through  the  village, 
Beckons  to  the  fairest  maiden, 

And  she  follows  where  he  leads  her, 
Leaving  all  things  for  the  stranger  ! ” 
Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward, 
Through  interminable  forests, 

Over  meadow,  over  mountain, 

Over  river,  hill,  and  hollow. 

Short  it  seemed  to  Hiawatha, 

Though  they  journeyed  very  slowly, 
Though  his  pace  he  checked  and  slack- 
ened 

To  the  steps  of  Laughing  Water. 

Over  wide  and  rushing  rivers 
In  his  arms  he  bore  the  maiden  ; 

Light  he  thought  her  as  a feather, 

As  the  plume  upon  his  head-gear  ; 
Cleared  the  tangled  pathway  for  her, 
Bent  aside  the  swaying  branches, 

Made  at  night  a lodge  of  branches. 

And  a bed  with  boughs  of  hemlock, 

And  a fire  before  the  doorway 
With  the  dry  cones  of  the  pine-tree. 

All  the  travelling  winds  went  with 
them, 

O’er  the  meadow,  through  the  forest ; 
All  the  stars  of  night  looked  at  them, 
Watched  with  sleepless  eyes  their  slum- 
ber ; 

From  his  ambush  in  the  oak-tree 
Peeped  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Watched  with  eager,  eyes  the  lovers  ; 
And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 


Scampered  from  the  path  before  them, 
Peering,  peeping  from  his  burrow, 

Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches, 

Watched  with  curious  eyes  the  lovers. 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward  ! 
All  the  birds  sang  loud  and  sweetly 
Songs  of  happiness  and  heart’s-ease  ; 
Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 

“ Happy  are  you,  Hiawatha, 

Having  such  a wife  to  love  you  ! ” 

Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 

“ Happy  are  you,  Laughing  Water, 
Having  such  a noble  husband  ! ” 

From  the  sky  the  sun  benignant 
Looked  upon  them  through  the  branches, 
Saying  to  them,  “ 0 my  children, 

Love  is  sunshine,  hate  is  shadow, 

Life  is  checkered  shade  and  sunshine, 
Rule  by  love,  0 Hiawatha  ! ” 

From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at 
them, 

Filled  the  lodge  with  mystic  splendors, 
Whispered  to  them,  “ 0 my  children, 
Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 

Man  imperious,  woman  feeble  ; 

Half  is  mine,  although  I follow  ; 

Rule  by  patience,  Laughing  Water  ! ” 
Thus  it  was  they  journeyed  home- 
ward ; 

Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis 
Brought  the  moonlight,  starlight,  fire- 
light, 

Brought  the  sunshine  of  his  people, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women 
In  the  la#nd  of  the  Dacotahs, 

In  the  land  of  handsome  women. 


XI. 

hiawatha’s  wedding-feast. 

Yott  shall  hear  how  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
How  the  handsome  Yenadizze 
Danced  at  Hiawatha’s  wadding  ; 

How  the  gentle  Chibiabos, 

He  the  sweetest  of  musicians, 

Sang  his  songs  of  love  and  longing  ; 
How  Iagoo,  the  great  boaster, 

He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 

Told  his  tales  of  strange  adventure, 
That  the  feast  might  be  more  joyous. 
That  the  time  might  pass  more  gayly; 
And  the  guests  be  more  contented. 
Sumptuous  was  the  feast  Nokomis 


HIAWATHA’S  WEDDING-FEAST. 


165 


Made  at  Hiawatha’s  wedding  ; 

All  the  bowls  were  made  of  bass-wood, 
White  and  polished  very  smoothly, 

All  the  spoons  of  horn  of  bison, 

Black  and  polished  very  smoothly. 

She  had  sent  through  all  the  village 
Messengers  with  wands  of  willow, 

As  a sign  of  invitation, 

As  a token  of  the  feasting  ; 

And  the  wedding  guests  assembled, 

Clad  in  all  their  richest  raiment, 

Robes  of  fur  and  belts  of  wampum, 
Splendid  with  their  paint  and  plumage, 
Beautiful  with  beads  and  tassels. 

First  they  ate  the  sturgeon,  Nahma, 
And  the  pike,  the  Maskenozha, 

Caught  and  cooked  by  old  Nokomis  ; 
Then  on  pemican  they  feasted, 

Pemican  and  buffalo  marrow, 

Haunch  of  deer  and  hump  of  bison, 
Yellow  cakes  of  the  Mondamin, 

And  the  wild  rice  of  the  river. 

But  the  gracious  Hiawatha, 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 

And  the  careful  old  Nokomis, 

Tasted  not  the  food  before  them, 

Only  waited  on  the  others, 

Only  served  their  guests  in  silence. 

And  when  all  the  guests  had  finished, 
Old  Nokomis,  brisk  and  busy, 

From  an  ample  pouch  of  otter, 

Filled  the  red-stone  pipes  for  smoking 
With  tobacco  from  the  South-land, 
Mixed  with  bark  of  the  red  willow, 

And  with  herbs  and  leaves  of  fragrance. 

Then  she  said,  “ 0 Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Dance  for  us  your  merry  dances, 

Dance  the  Beggar’s  Dance  to  please  us, 
That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 

That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 

And  our  guests  be  more  contented  ! ” 

Then  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
He  the  idle  Yenadizze, 

He  the  merry  mischief-maker, 

Whom  the  people  called  the  Storm-Fool, 
Rose  among  the  guests  assembled. 

Skilled  was  he  in  sports  and  pastimes, 
In  the  merry  dance  of  snow-shoes, 

In  the  play  of  quoits  and  ball-play  ; 
Skilled  was  he  in  games  of  hazard, 

In  all  games  of  skill  and  hazard, 
Pugasaing,  the  Bowl  and  Counters, 
Kuntassoo,  the  Game  of  Plum-stones. 

Though  the  warriors  called  him  Faint- 
Heart, 

Called  him  coward,  Shaugodaya, 

Idler,  gambler,  Yenadizze, 


Little  heeded  he  their  jesting, 

Little  cared  he  for  their  insults, 

For  the  women  and  the  maidens 
Loved  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

He  was  dressed  in  shirt  of  doeskin, 
White  and  soft,  and  fringed  with  ermine, 
All  inwrought  with  beads  of  wampum  ; 
He  was  dressed  in  deer-skin  leggings, 
Fringed  with  hedgehog  quills  and  ermine, 
And  in  moccasins  of  buck-skin, 

Thick  with  quills  and  beads  embroidered. 
On  his  head  were  plumes  of  swan’s 
down, 

On  his  heels  were  tails  of  foxes, 

In  one  hand  a fan  of  feathers, 

And  a pipe  was  in  the  other. 

Barred  with  streaks  of  red  and  yellow, 
Streaks  of  blue  and  bright  vermilion, 
Shone  the  face  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

From  his  forehead  fell  his  tresses, 
Smooth,  and  parted  like  a woman’s, 
Shining  bright  with  oil,  and  plaited, 
Hung  with  braids  of  scented  grasses, 

As  among  the  guests  assembled, 

To  the  sound  of  flutes  and  singing, 

To  the  sound  of  drums  and  voices, 

Rose  the  handsome  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
And  began  his  mystic  dances. 

First  he  danced  a solemn  measure, 
Very  slow  in  step  and  gesture, 

In  and  out  among  the  pine-trees, 
Through  the  shadows  and  the  sunshine, 
Treading  softly  like  a panther. 

Then  more  swiftly  and  still  swifter, 
Whirling,  spinning  round  in  circles, 
Leaping  o’er  the  guests  assembled, 
Eddying  round  and  round  the  wigwam, 
Till  the  leaves  went  whirling  with  him, 
Till  the  dust  and  wind  together 
Swept  in  eddies  round  about  him. 

Then  along  the  sandy  margin 
Of  the  lake,  the  Big-Sea- Water, 

On  he  sped  with  frenzied  gestures, 
Stamped  upon  the  sand,  and  tossed  it 
Wildly  in  the  air  around  him  ; 

Till  the  wind  became  a whirlwind, 

Till  the  sand  was  blown  and  sifted 
Like  great  snowdrifts  o’er  the  landscape, 
Heaping  all  the  shores  with  Sand  Dunes, 
Sand  Hills  of  the  Nagow  Wudjoo  ! 

Thus  the  merry  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Danced  his  Beggar’s  Dance  to  please 
them, 

And,  returning,  sat  down  laughing 
There  among  the  guests  assembled, 

Sa"  and  fanned  himself  serenely 
With  his  fan  of  turkey-feathers. 


166 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Then  they  said  to  Chibiabos, 

To  the  friend  of  Hiawatha, 

To  the  sweetest  of  all  singers, 

To  the  best  of  all  musicians, 

“ Sing  to  us,  0 Chibiabos  ! 

Songs  of  love  and  songs  of  longing, 

That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 

That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 

And  our  guests  be  more  contented  ! ” 
And  the  gentle  Chibiabos 
Sang  in  accents  sweet  and  tender, 

Sang  in  tones  of  deep  emotion, 

Songs  of  love  and  songs  of  longing  ; 
Looking  still  at  Hiawatha, 

Looking  at  fair  Laughing  Water, 

Sang  he  softly,  sang  in  this  wise  : 

‘ ‘ Onaway  ! Awake,  beloved  ! 

Thou  the  wild-flower  of  the  forest  ! 

Thou  the  wild -bird  of  the  prairie  ! 

Thou  with  eyes  so  soft  and  fawn-like  ! 

“If  thou  only  lookest  at  me, 

I am  happy,  I am  happy, 

As  the  lilies  of  the  prairie, 

When  they  feel  the  dew  upon  them  ! 

“Sweet  thy  breath  is  as  the  fragrance 
Of  the  wild-flowers  in  the  morning, 

As  their  fragrance  is  at  evening, 

In  the  Moon  when  leaves  are  falling. 

“ Does  not  all  the  blood  within  me 
Leap  to  meet  thee,  leap  to  meet  thee, 

As  the  springs  to  meet  the  sunshine, 

In  the  Moon  when  nights  are  brightest  ? 

“Onaway  ! my  heart  sings  to  thee, 
Sings  with  joy  when  thou  art  near  me, 
As  the  sighing,  singing  branches 
In  the  pleasant  Moon  of  Strawberries  ! 

“When  thou  art  not  pleased,  beloved, 
Then  my  heart  is  sad  and  darkened, 

As  the  shining  river  darkens 
When  the  clouds  drop  shadows  on  it  ! 

“ When  thou  smilest,  my  beloved, 
Then  my  troubled  heart  is  brightened, 
As  in  sunshine  gleam  the  ripples 
That  the  cold  wind  makes  in  rivers. 
“Smiles  the  earth,  and  smile  the 
waters, 

Smile  the  cloudless  skies  above  us, 

But  I lose  the  way  of  smiling 
When  thou  art  no  longer  near  me  ! 

“ I myself,  myself  ! behold  me  ! 

Blood  of  my  beating  heart,  behold  me  ! 
O awake,  awake,  beloved  ! 

Onaway  ! awTake,  beloved  ! ” 

Thus  the  gentle  Chibiabos 
Sang  his  song  of  love  and  longing  ; 

And  Iagoo,  the  great  boaster, 

He  the  marvellous  story-teller, 


He  the  friend  of  old  Nokomis, 

Jealous  of  the  sweet  musician, 

Jealous  of  the  applause  they  gave  him, 
Saw  in  all  the  eyes  around  him, 

Saw  in  all  their  looks  and  gestures, 
That  the  wedding  guests  assembled 
Longed  to  hear  his  pleasant  stories, 
His  immeasurable  falsehoods. 

Very  boastful  was  Iagoo  ; 

Never  heard  he  an  adventure 
But  himself  had  met  a greater  ; 

Never  any  deed  of  daring 
But  himself  had  done  a bolder  ; 

Never  any  marvellous  story 
But  himself  could  tell  a stranger. 

Would  you  listen  to  his  boasting, 
Would  you  only  give  him  credence, 

No  one  ever  shot  an  arrow 
Half  so  far  and  high  as  he  had  ; 

Ever  caught  so  many  fishes, 

Ever  killed  so  many  reindeer, 

Ever  trapped  so  many  beaver  ! 

None  could  run  so  fast  as  he  could, 
None  could  dive  so  deep  as  he  could, 
None  could  swim  so  far  as  he  could; 
None  had  made  so  many  journeys, 
None  had  seen  so  many  wonders, 

As  this  wonderful  Iagoo, 

As  this  marvellous  story-teller  ! 

Thus  his  name  became  a by-word 
And  a jest  among  the  people  ; 

And  whene’er  a boastful  hunter 
Praised  his  own  address  too  highly, 

Or  a warrior,  home  returning, 

Talked  too  much  of  his  achievements, 
All  his  hearers  cried,  “ Iagoo  ! 

Here  ’s  Iagoo  come  among  us  ! ” 

He  it  was  who  carved  the  cradle 
Of  the  little  Hiawatha, 

Carved  its  framework  out  of  linden, 
Bound  it  strong  with  reindeer  sinews  ; 
He  it  was  who  taught  him  later 
How  to  make  his  bows  and  arrows, 
How  to  make  the  bows  of  ash-tree, 
And  the  arrows  of  the  oak-tree. 

So  among  the  guests  assembled 
At  my  Hiawatha’s  wedding 
Sat  Iagoo,  old  and  ugly, 

Sat  the  marvellous  story-teller. 

And  they  said,  “0  good  Iagoo, 

Tell  us  now  a tale  of  wonder, 

Tell  us  of  some  strange  adventure, 
That  the  feast  may  be  more  joyous, 
That  the  time  may  pass  more  gayly, 
And  our  guests  be  more  contented  ! ” 

And  Iagoo  answered  straightway, 
“You  shall  hear  a tale  of  wonder. 


THE  SON  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR.  1G7 


You  shall  hear  the  strange  adventures 
Of  Osseo,  the  Magician, 

From  the  Evening  Star  descended.” 


XII. 

THE  SON  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

Can  it  be  the  sun  descending 
O’er  the  level  plain  of  water  ? 

Or  the  Red  Swan  floating,  flying, 
Wounded  by  the  magic  arrow, 

Staining  all  the  waves  with  crimson, 
With  the  crimson  of  its  life-blood, 
Filling  all  the  air  with  splendor, 

With  the  splendor  of  its  plumage  ? 

Yes  ; it  is  the  sun  descending, 

Sinking  down  into  the  water  ; 

All  the  sky  is  stained  with  purple, 

All  the  water  flushed  with  crimson  ! 

No  ; it  is  the  Red  Swan  floating, 

Diving  down  beneath  the  water  ; 

To  the  sky  its  wings  are  lifted, 

With  its  blood  the  waves  are  reddened  ! 

Over  it  the  Star  of  Evening 
Melts  and  trembles  through  the  purple, 
Hangs  suspended  in  the  twilight. 

No  ; it  is  a bead  of  wampum 
On  the  robes  of  the  Great  Spirit, 

As  he  passes  through  the  twilight, 
Walks  in  silence  through  the  heavens. 

This  with  joy  beheld  Iagoo 
And  he  said  in  haste  : “ Behold  it  ! 

See  the  sacred  Star  of  Evening  ! 

You  shall  hear  a tale  of  wonder, 

Hear  the  story  of  Osseo, 

Son  of  the  Evening  Star,  Osseo  ! 

“ Once,  in  days  no  more  remembered, 
Ages  nearer  the  beginning, 

When  the  heavens  were  closer  to  us, 
And  the  Gods  were  more  familiar, 

In  the  North-land  lived  a hunter, 

With  ten  young  and  comely  daugh- 
ters, 

Tall  and  lithe  as  wands  of  willow  ; 

Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 

She  the  wilful  and  the  wayward, 

She  the  silent,  dreamy  maiden, 

Was  the  fairest  of  the  sisters. 

“All  these  women  married  warriors, 
Married  brave  and  haughty  husbands  ; 
Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 

Laughed  and  flouted  all  her  lovers, 

All  her  young  ami  handsome  suitors, 
And  then  married  old  Osseo, 

Old  Osseo,  poor  and  ugly, 


Broken  with  age  and  weak  with  cough- 
ing, 

Always  coughing  like  a squirrel. 

“Ah,  but  beautiful  within  him 
Was  the  spirit  of  Osseo, 

From  the  Evening  Star  descended, 

Star  of  Evening,  Star  of  Woman, 

Star  of  tenderness  and  passion  ! 

All  its  fire  was  in  his  bosom, 

All  its  beauty  in  his  spirit, 

All  its  mystery  in  his  being, 

All  its  splendor  in  his  language  ! 

“And  her  lovers,  the  rejected, 
Handsome  men  with  belts  of  wampum, 
Handsome  men  with  paint  and  feathers. 
Pointed  at  her  in  derision, 

Followed  her  with  jest  and  laughter. 

But  she  said  : ‘ I care  not  for  you, 

Care  not  for  your  belts  of  wampum, 

Care  not  for  your  paint  and  feathers, 
Care  not  for  your  jests  and  laughter  ; 

I am  happy  with  Osseo  ! * 

“ Once  to  some  great  feast  invited, 
Through  the  damp  and  dusk  of  evening 
Walked  together  the  ten  sisters, 

Walked  together  with  their  husbands  ; 
Slowly  followed  old  Osseo, 

With  fair  Oweenee  beside  him  ; 

All  the  others  chatted  gaylv, 

These  two  only  walked  in  silence. 

“ At  the  western  sky  Osseo 
Gazed  intent,  as  if  imploring, 

Often  stopped  and  gazed  imploring 
At  the  trembling  Star  of  Evening, 

At  the  tender  Star  of  Woman  ; 

And  they  heard  him  murmur  softly, 

‘ Ah,  showain  nemeshin,  Nosa  ! 

Pit}q  pity  me,  my  father  ! ’ 

“ ‘ Listen  ! ’ said  the  eldest  sister, 

‘ He  is  praying  to  his  father ! 

What  a pity  that  the  old  man 
Does  not  stumble  in  the  pathway, 

Does  not  break  his  neck  by  falling  ! * 
And  they  laughed  till  all  the  forest 
Rang  with  their  unseemly  laughter. 

‘ ‘ On  their  pathway  through  the  wood- 
lands 

Lay  an  oak,  by  storms  uprooted, 

Lay  the  great  trunk  of  an  oak-tree, 
Buried  half  in  leaves  and  mosses, 
Mouldering,  crumbling,  huge  and  hol- 
low. 

And  Osseo,  when  he  saw  it, 

Gave  a shout,  a cry  of  anguish, 

Leaped  into  its  yawning  cavern, 

At  one  end  went  in  an  old  man, 

Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly  ; 


1G8 


THE  SONG  OP  HIAWATHA. 


From  the  other  came  a young  man, 

Tall  and  straight  and  strong  and  hand- 
some. 

“ Thus  Osseo  was  transfigured, 

Thus  restored  to  youth  and  beauty  ; 
But,  alas  for  good  Osseo, 

And  for  Oweenee,  the  faithful  ! 
Strangely,  too,  was  she  transfigured. 
Changed  into  a weak  old  woman, 

With  a staff  she  tottered  onward, 
Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly  ! 

And  the  sisters  and  their  husbands 
Laughed  until  the  echoing  forest 
Bang  with  their  unseemly  laughter. 

“ But  Osseo  turned  not  from  her, 
Walked  with  slower  step  beside  her, 
Took  her  hand,  as  brown  and  withered 
As  an  oak-leaf  is  in  Winter, 

Called  her  sweetheart,  Nenemoosha, 
Soothed  her  with  soft  words  of  kindness, 
Till  they  reached  the  lodge  of  feasting, 
Till  they  sat  down  in  the  wigwam, 
Sacred  to  the  Star  of  Evening, 

To  the  tender  Star  of  Woman. 

“Wrapt  in  visions,  lost  in  dreaming, 
At  the  banquet  sat  Osseo  ; 

All  were  merry,  all  were  happy, 

All  were  joyous  but  Osseo. 

Neither  food  nor  drink  he  tasted, 
Neither  did  he  speak  nor  listen, 

But  as  one  bewildered  sat  he, 

Looking  dreamily  and  sadly, 

First  at  Oweenee,  then  upward 
At  the  gleaming  sky  above  them. 

“ Then  a voice  was  heard,  a whisper, 
Coming  from  the  starry  distance, 
Coming  from  the  empty  vastness, 

Low,  and  musical,  and  tender  ; 

And  the  voice  said  : ‘ 0 Osseo  ! 

0 my  son,  my  best  beloved  ! 

Broken  are  the  spells  that  bound  you, 
All  the  charms  of  the  magicians, 

All  the  magic  powers  of  evil  ; 

Come  to  me  ; ascend,  Osseo  ! 

“‘Taste  the  food  that  stands  before 
you  : 

It  is  blessed  and  enchanted, 

It  has  magic  virtues  in  it, 

It  will  change  you  to  a spirit. 

All  your  bowls  and  all  your  kettles 
Shall  be  wood  and  clay  no  longer  ; 

But  the  bowls  be  changed  to  wampum, 
And  the  kettles  shall  be  silver  ; 

They  shall  shine  like  shells  of  scarlet, 
Like  the  fire  shall  gleam  and  glimmer. 

“ ‘ And  the  women  shall  no  longer 
Bear  the  dreary  doom  of  labor, 


But  be  changed  to  birds,  and  glisten 
With  the  beauty  of  the  starlight, 
Painted  with  the  dusky  splendors 
Of  the  skies  and  clouds  of  evening  ! * 

“What  Osseo  heard  as  whispers, 
What  as  words  he  comprehended, 

Was  but  music  to  the  others, 

Music  as  of  birds  afar  off, 

Of  the  whippoorwill  afar  off, 

Of  the  lonely  Wawonaissa 
Singing  in  the  darksome  forest. 

“ Then  the  lodge  began  to  tremble, 
Straight  began  to  shake  and  tremble, 
And  they  felt  it  rising,  rising, 

Slowly  through  the  air  ascending, 

From  the  darkness  of  the  tree-tops 
Forth  into  the  dewy  starlight, 

Till  it  passed  the  topmost  branches  ; 
And  behold  ! the  wooden  dishes 
All  were  changed  to  shells  of  scarlet  ! 
And  behold  ! the  earthen  kettles 
All  were  changed  to  bowls  of  silver  l 
And  the  roof-poles  of  the  wigwam 
Were  as  glittering  rods  of  silver, 

And  the  roof  of  bark  upon  them 
As  the  shining  shards  of  beetles. 

“Then  Osseo  gazed  around  him, 

And  he  saw  the  nine  fair  sisters, 

All  the  sisters  and  their  husbands, 
Changed  to  birds  of  various  plumage. 
Some  were  jays  and  some  were  mag* 
pies, 

Others  thrushes,  others  blackbirds  ; 

And  they  hopped,  and  sang,  and  twit- 
tered, 

Perked  and  fluttered  all  their  feathers, 
Strutted  in  their  shining  plumage, 

And  their  tails  like  fans  unfolded. 

“Only  Oweenee,  the  youngest, 

Was  not  changed,  but  sat  in  silence, 
Wasted,  wrinkled,  old,  and  ugly, 
Looking  sadly  at  the  others  ; 

Till  Osseo,  gazing  upward, 

Gave  another  cry  of  anguish, 

Such  a cry  as  he  had  uttered 
By  the  oak-tree  in  the  forest. 

“ Then  returned  her  youth  and  beauty, 
And  her  soiled  and  tattered  garments 
Were  transformed  to  robes  of  ermine, 
And  her  staff  became  a feather, 

Yes,  a shining  silver  feather  ! 

“ And  again  the  wigwam  trembled, 
Swayed  and  rushed  through  airy  currents, 
Through  transparent  cloud  and  vapor, 
And  amid  celestial  splendors 
On  the  Evening  Star  alighted, 

As  a snow-flake  falls  on  snow-flake, 


THE  SON  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR. 


169 


As  a leaf  drops  on  a river, 

As  the  thistle-down  on  water. 

“Forth  with  cheerful  words  of  wel- 
come 

Came  the  father  of  Osseo, 

He  with  radiant  locks  of  silver. 

He  with  eyes  serene  and  tender. 

And  he  said  : ‘ My  son,  Osseo, 

Hang  the  cage  of  birds  you  bring  there, 
Hang  the  cage  with  rods  of  silver, 

And  the  birds  with  glistening  feathers, 
At  the  doorway  of  my  wigwam.’ 

“ At  the  door  he  hung  the  bird-cage, 
And  they  entered  in  and  gladly 
Listened  to  Osseo’ s father, 

Ruler  of  the  Star  of  Evening, 

As  he  said  : ‘ 0 my  Osseo  ! 

I have  had  compassion  on  yon, 

Given  you  back  your  youth  and  beauty, 
Into  birds  of  various  plumage 
Changed  your  sisters  and  their  husbands; 
Changed  them  thus  because  they  mocked 
you 

In  the  figure  of  the  old  man, 

In  that  aspect  sad  and  wrinkled, 

Could  not  see  your  heart  of  passion, 
Could  not  see  your  youth  immortal  ; 
Only  Oweenee,  the  faithful, 

Saw  your  naked  heart  and  loved  you. 
“‘In  the  lodge  that  glimmers  yon- 
der, 

In  the  little  star  that  twinkles 
Through  the  vapors,  on  the  left  hand, 
Lives  the  envious  Evil  Spirit, 

The  Wabeno,  the  magician, 

Who  transformed  you  to  an  old  man. 
Take  heed  lest  his  beams  fall  on  you, 
For  the  rays  he  darts  around  him 
Are  the  power  of  his  enchantment, 

Are  the  arrows  that  he  uses.’ 

‘ ‘ Many  years,  in  peace  and  quiet, 

On  the  peaceful  Star  of  Evening 
Dwelt  Osseo  with  his  father  ; 

Many  years,  in  song  and  flutter, 

At  the  doorway  of  the  wigwam, 

Hung  the  cage  with  rods  of  silver, 

And  fair  Oweenee,  the  faithful, 

Bore  a son  unto  Osseo, 

With  the  beauty  of  his  mother, 

With  the  courage  of  his  father. 

“And  the  boy  grew  up  and  prospered, 
And  Osseo,  to  delight  him, 

. Made  him  little  bows  and  arrows, 
Opened  the  great  cage  of  silver, 

And  let  loose  his  aunts  and  uncles, 

All  those  birds  with  glossy  feathers, 

For  his  little  son  to  shoot  at. 


“ Round  and  round  they  wheeled  and 
darted, 

Filled  the  Evening  Star  with  music, 
With  their  songs  of  joy  and  freedom  ; 
Filled  the  Evening  Star  with  splendor, 
With  the  fluttering  of  tlieir  plumage  ; 
Till  the  boy,  the  little  hunter, 

Bent  his  bow  and  shot  an  arrow, 

Shot  a swift  and  fatal  arrow, 

And  a bird,  with  shining,  feathers, 

At  his  feet  fell  wounded  sorely. 

“ But,  0 wondrous  transformation  ! 

’T  was  no  bird  he  saw  before  him, 

’T  was  a beautiful  young  woman, 

With  the  arrow  in  her  bosom  ! 

“ When  her  blood  fell  on  the  planet. 
On  the  sacred  Star  of  Evening, 

Broken  was  the  spell  of  magic, 

Powerless  was  the  strange  enchantment, 
And  the  youth,  the  fearless  bowman 
Suddenly  felt  himself  descending, 

Held  by  unseen  hands,  but  sinking 
Downward  through  the  empty  spaces, 
Downward  through  the  clouds  and  va- 
pors, 

Till  he  rested  on  an  island, 

On  an  island,  green  and  grassy, 

Yonder  in  the  Big-Sea- Water. 

“ After  him  he  saw  descending 
All  the  birds  with  shining  feathers, 
Fluttering,  falling,  wafted  downward, 
Like  the  painted  leaves  of  Autumn  ; 
And  the  lodge  with  poles  of  silver, 

With  its  roof  like  wings  of  beetles, 

Like  the  shining  shards  of  beetles, 

By  the  winds  of  heaven  uplifted, 

Slowly  sank  upon  the  island, 

Bringing  back  the  good  Osseo, 

Bringing  Oweenee,  the  faithful. 

“ Then  the  birds,  again  transfigured, 
Reassumed  the  shape  of  mortals, 

Took  their  shape,  but  not  their  stature  ; 
They  remained  as  Little  People, 

Like  the  pygmies,  the  Puk-Wudjies, 
And  on  pleasant  nights  of  Summer, 
When  the  Evening  Star  was  shining, 
Hand  in  hand  they  danced  together 
On  the  island’s  craggy  headlands, 

On  the  sand-beach  low  and  level. 

“ Still  their  glittering  lodge  is  seen 
there, 

On  the  tranquil  Summer  evenings, 

And  upon  the  shore  the  fisher 
Sometimes  hears  their  happy  voices, 

Sees  them  dancing  in  the  starlight  ! ” 
When  the  story  was  completed, 

When  the  wondrous  tale  was  ended, 


170 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Looking  round  upon  his  listeners, 
Solemnly  Iagoo  added  : 

“There  are  great  men,  I have  known 
such, 

Whom  their  people  understand  not, 
Whom  they  even  make  a jest  of, 

Scoff*  and  jeer  at  in  derision. 

From  the  story  of  Osseo 

Let  us  learn  the  fate  of  jesters  ! ” 

All  the  wedding  guests  delighted 
Listened  to  the  marvellous  story, 
Listened  laughing  and  applauding, 

And  they  whispered  to  each  other  : 

“ Does  he  mean  himself,  I wonder  ? 

And  are  we  the  aunts  and  uncles  ? ” 
Then  again  sang  Chibiabos, 

Sang  a song  of  love  and  longing, 

In  those  accents  sweet  and  tender, 

In  those  tones  of  pensive  sadness, 

Sang  a maiden’s  lamentation 
For  her  lover,  her  Algonquin. 

44  When  I think  of  my  beloved, 

Ah  me  ! think  of  my  beloved, 

When  my  heart  is  thinking  of  him, 

0 my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

‘ 4 Ah  me  ! when  I parted  from  him, 
Hound  my  neck  he  hung  the  wampum, 
Asa  pledge,  the  snow-white  wampum, 

0 my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

44  I will  go  with  you,  he  whispered, 
Ah  me  ! to  your  native  country  ; 

Let  me  go  with  you,  he  whispered, 

O my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

4 4 Far  away,  away,  I answered, 

Very  far  away,  I answered, 

Ah  me  ! is  my  native  country, 

Omy  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

44  When  I looked  back  to  behold  him, 
Where  we  parted,  to  behold  him, 

After  me  he  still  was  gazing, 

0 my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

u By  the  tree  he  still  was  standing, 

By  the  fallen  tree  was  standing, 

That  had  dropped  into  the  water, 

0 my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! 

44  When  I think  of  my  beloved, 

Ah  me  ! think  of  my  beloved, 

When  my  heart  is  thinking  of  him, 

0 my  sweetheart,  my  Algonquin  ! ” 

Such  was  Hiawatha’s  Wedding, 

Such  the  dance  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Such  the  story  of  Iagoo, 

Such  the  songs  of  Chibiabos  ; 

Thus  the  wedding  banquet  ended, 

And  the  wedding  guests  departed, 
Leaving  Hiawatha  happy 
With  the  night  and  Minnehaha. 


XIII. 

BLESSING  THE  CORNFIELDS. 

Sing,  0 Song  of  Hiawatha, 

Of  the  happy  days  that  followed, 

In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 

In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful ! 

Sing  the  mysteries  of  Mondamin, 

Sing  the  Blessing  of  the  Cornfields  ! 

Buried  was  the  bloody  hatchet, 

Buried  was  the  dreadful  war-club, 

Buried  were  all  warlike  weapons, 

And  the  war-cry  was  forgotten. 

There  was  peace  among  the  nations  ; 
Unmolested  roved  the  hunters, 

Built  the  birch  canoe  for  sailing, 

Caught  the  fish  in  lake  and  river, 

Shot  the  deer  and  trapped  the  beaver ; 
Unmolested  worked  the  women, 

Made  their  sugar  from  the  maple, 
Gathered  wild  rice  in  the  meadows, 
Dressed  the  skins  of  deer  and  beaver. 

All  around  the  happy  village 
Stood  the  maize-fields,  green  and  shim 
in  g, 

Waved  the  green  plumes  of  Mondamin, 
Waved  his  soft  and  sunny  tresses, 
Filling  all  the  land  with  plenty. 

’T  was " the  women  who  in  Spring- 
time 

Planted  the  broad  fields  and  fruitful, 
Buried  in  the  earth  Mondamin  ; 

’T  was  the  women  who  in  Autumn 
Stripped  the  yellow  husks  of  harvest, 
Stripped  the  garments  from  Mondamin, 
Even  as  Hiawatha  taught  them. 

Once,  when  all  the  maize  was  planted, 
Hiawatha,  wise  and  thoughtful, 

Spake  and  said  to  Minnehaha, 

To  his  wife,  the  Laughing  Water  : 

44  You  shall  bless  to-night  the  cornfields, 
Draw  a magic  circle  round  them, 

To  protect  them  from  destruction, 

Blast  of  mildew,  blight  of  insect, 
Wagemin,  the  thief  of  cornfields, 
Paimosaid,  who  steals  the  maize- ear  ! 

4 4 In  the  night,  when  all  is  silence, 

In  the  night,  when  all  is  darkness, 
When  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin, 
Shuts  the  doors  of  all  the  wigwams, 

So  that  not  an  ear  can  hear  you, 

So  that  not  an  eye  can  see  you, 

Pise  up  from  your  bed  in  silence. 

Lay  aside  your  garments  wholly, 

Walk  around  the  fields  you  planted, 
Round  Hie  borders  of  the  cornfields, 


BLESSING  THE  CORNFIELDS. 


171 


Covered  by  your  tresses  only, 

Robed  with  darkness  as  a garment. 

“Thus  the  fields  shall  be  more  fruitful, 
And  the  passing  of  your  footsteps 
Draw  a magic  circle  round  them, 

So  that  neither  blight  nor  mildew, 
Neither  burrowing  worm  nor  insect, 
Shall  pass  o’er  the  magic  circle  ; 

Not  the  dragon-fly,  Kwo-ne-she, 

Nor  the  spider,  Subbekashe, 

Nor  the  grasshopper,  Pah-puk-keena, 
Nor  the  mighty  caterpillar, 
Way-muk-kwana,  with  the  bear-skin, 
King  of  all  the  caterpillars  ! ” 

On  the  tree-tops  near  the  cornfields 
Sat  the  hungry  crows  and  ravens, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 

With  his  band  of  black  marauders. 

And  they  laughed  at  Hiawatha, 

Till  the  tree-tops  shook  with  laughter, 
With  their  melancholy  laughter, 

At  the  words  of  Hiawatha. 

“Hear  him  ! ” said  they ; “hear  the  Wise 
Man, 

Hear  the  plots  of  Hiawatha  ! ” 

When  the  noiseless  night  descended 
Broad  and  dark  o’er  field  and  forest, 
When  the  mournful  Wawonaissa, 
Sorrowing  sang  among  the  hemlocks, 
And  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin, 

Shut  the  doors  of  all  the  wigwams, 

From  her  bed  rose  Laughing  Water, 
Laid  aside  her  garments  wholly, 

And  with  darkness  clothed  and  guarded, 
Unashamed  and  unaffrighted, 

Walked  securely  round  the  cornfields, 

Drew  the  sacred,  magic  circle 

Of  her  footprints  round  the  cornfields. 

No  one  but  the  Midnight  only 
Saw  her  beauty  in  the  darkness, 

No  one  but  the  Wawonaissa 
Heard  the  panting  of  her  bosom  ; 
Guskewau,  the  darkness,  wrapped  her 
Closely  in  his  sacred  mantle, 

So  that  none  might  see  her  beauty, 

So  that  none  might  boast,  “ I saw  her  ! ” 

On  the  morrow,  as  the  day  dawned, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
Gathered  all  his  black  marauders, 

Crows  and  blackbirds,  jays  and  ravens, 
Clamorous  on  the  dusky  tree-tops, 

And  descended,  fast  and  fearless, 

On  the  fields  of  Hiawatha, 

On  the  grave  of  the  Mondamin. 

“We  will  drag  Mondamin,”  said  they, 
“ From  the  grave  where  he  is  buried, 
Spite  of  all  the  magic  circles 


Laughing  Water  draws  around  it, 

Spite  of  all  the  sacred  footprints 
Minnehaha  stamps  upon  it  ! ” 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha, 

Ever  thoughtful,  careful,  watchful, 

Had  o’erheard  the  scornful  laughter 
When  they  mocked  him  from  the  tree* 
tops. 

“ Kaw  ! ” he  said,  “ my  friends  the  ra- 
vens ! 

Kahgahgee,  my  King  of  Ravens  ! 

I will  teach  you  all  a lesson 
That  shall  not  be  soon  forgotten  ! ” 

He  had  risen  before  the  daybreak, 

He  had  spread  o’er  all  the  cornfields 
Snares  to  catch  the  black  marauders, 
And  was  lying  now  in  ambush 
In  the  neighboring  grove  of  pine-trees, 
Waiting  for  the  crows  and  blackbirds, 
Waiting  for  the  jays  and  ravens. 

Soon  they  came  with  caw  and  clamor. 
Rush  of  wings  and  cry  of  voices, 

To  their  work  of  devastation, 

Settling  down  upon  the  cornfields, 
Delving  deep  with  beak  and  talon, 

For  the  body  of  Mondamin. 

And  with  all  their  craft  and  cunning, 
All  their  skill  in  wiles  of  warfare, 

They  perceived  no  danger  near  them, 

Till  their  claws  became  entangled, 

Till  they  found  themselves  imprisoned 
In  the  snares  of  Hiawatha. 

From  his  place  of  ambush  came  he, 
Striding  terrible  among  them, 

And  so  awful  was  his  aspect 
That  the  bravest  quailed  with  terror. 
Without  mercy  he  destroyed  them 
Right  and  left,  by  tens  and  twenties, 
And  their  wretched,  lifeless  bodies 
Hung  aloft  on  poles  for  scarecrows  1 
Round  the  consecrated  cornfields, 

As  a signal  of  his  vengeance, 

As  a warning  to  marauders. 

Only  Kahgahgee,  the  leader, 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 

He  alone  was  spared  among  them 
As  a hostage  for  his  people. 

With  his  prisoner  - string  he  bound 
him, 

Led  him  captive  to  his  wigwam, 

Tied  him  fast  with  cords  of  elm-bark 
To  the  ridge-pole  of  his  wigwam. 

“ Kahgahgee,  my  raven  ! ” said  he, 
“You  the  leader  of  the  robbers, 

You  the  plotter  of  this  mischief, 

The  contriver  of  this  outrage, 

I will  keep  you,  I will  hold  you, 


172 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


As  a hostage  for  your  people, 

As  a pledge  of  good  behavior  ! ” 

And  he  left  him,  grim  and  sulky, 
Sitting  in  the  morning  sunshine 
On  the  summit  of  the  wigwam, 

Croaking  fiercely  his  displeasure, 
Flapping  his  great  sable  pinions, 

Vainly  struggling  for  his  freedom, 
Vainly  calling  on  his  people  ! 

Summer  passed,  and  Shawondasee 
Breathed  his  sighs  o’er  all  the  landscape, 
From  the  South-land  sent  his  ardors, 
Wafted  kisses  warm  and  tender  ; 

And  the  maize-field  grew  and  ripened, 
Till  it  stood  in  all  the  splendor 
Of  its  garments  green  and  yellow, 

Of  its  tassels  and  its  plumage, 

And  the  maize-ears  full  and  shining 
Gleamed  from  bursting  sheaths  of  ver- 
dure. 

Then  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 
Spake,  and  said  to  Minnehaha  : 

“ ’T  is  the  Moon  when  leaves  are  falling  ; 
All  the  wild-rice  has  been  gathered, 

And  the  maize  is  ripe  and  ready  ; 

Let  us  gather  in  the  harvest, 

Let  us  wrestle  with  Mondamin, 

Strip  him  of  his  plumes  and  tassels, 

Of  his  garments  green  and  yellow  ! ” 

And  the  merry  Laughing  Water 
Went  rejoicing  from  the  wigwam, 

With  Nokomis,  old  and  wrinkled, 

And  they  called  the  women  round  them, 
Called  the  young  men  and  the  maidens, 
To  the  harvest  of  the  cornfields, 

To  the  husking  of  the  maize-ear. 

On  the  border  of  the  forest, 
Underneath  the  fragrant  pine-trees, 

Sat  the  old  men  and  the  warriors 
Smoking  in  the  pleasant  shadow. 

In  uninterrupted  silence 
Looked  they  at  the  gamesome  labor 
Of  the  young  men  and  the  wom3n  ; 
Listened  to  their  noisy  talking, 

To  their  laughter  and  their  singing, 
Heard  them  chattering  like  the  magpies, 
Heard  them  laughing  like  the  blue-jays, 
Heard  them  singing  like  the  robins. 

And  whene’er  some  lucky  maiden 
Found  a red  ear  in  the  husking, 

Found  a maize-ear  red  as  blood  is, 

“ Nushka  ! ” cried  they  all  together, 

“ Nushka  ! you  shall  have  a sweetheart, 
You  shall  have  a handsome  husband  ! ” 
“ Ugh  ! ” the  old  men  all  responded 
From  their  seats  beneath  the  pine-trees. 

And  whene’er  a youth  or  maiden 


Found  a crooked  ear  in  husking, 

Found  a maize-ear  in  the  husking 
Blighted,  mildewed,  or  misshapen, 

Then  they  laughed  and  sang  together, 
Crept  and  limped  about  the  cornfields, 
Mimicked  in  their  gait  and  gestures 
Some  old  man,  bent  almost  double, 
Singing  singly  or  together : 

“ Wagemin,  the  thief  of  cornfields  ! 
Paimosaid,  who  steals  the  maize-ear  ! ” 
Till  the  cornfields  rang  with  laughter, 
Till  from  Hiawatha’s  wigwam 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 
Screamed  and  quivered  in  his  anger, 
And  from  all  the  neighboring  tree-tops 
Cawed  and  croaked  the  black  marauders. 
“ Ugh  ! ” the  old  men  all  responded, 
From  their  seats  beneath  the  pine-trees  ! 


XIV. 

PICTURE  -WRITING. 

In  those  days  said  Hiawatha, 

“ Lo  ! how  all  things  fade  and  perish  ! 
From  the  memory  of  the  old  men 
Pass  away  the  great  traditions, 

The  achievements  of  the  warriors, 

The  adventures  of  the  hunters, 

All  the  wisdom  of  the  Medas, 

All  the  craft  of  the  Whabenos, 

All  the  marvellous  dreams  and  visions 
Of  the  Jossakeeds,  the  Prophets  ! 

“ Great  men  die  and  are  forgotten, 
Wise  men  speak  ; their  words  of  wis- 
dom 

Perish  in  the  ears  that  hear  them, 

Do  not  reach  the  generations 
That,  as  yet  unborn,  are  waiting 
in  the  great,  mysterious  darkness 
Of  the  speechless  days  that  shall  be  ! 

“ On  the  grave-posts  of  our  fathers 
Are  no  signs,  no  figures  painted  ; 

Who  are  in  those  graves  we  know  not, 
Only  know  they  are  our  fathers. 

Of  what  kith  they  are  and  kindred, 
From  what  old,  ancestral  Totem, 

Be  it  Eagle,  Bear,  or  Beaver, 

They  descended,  this  we  know  not, 
Only  know  they  are  our  fathers. 

* ‘ Face  to  face  we  speak  together, 

But  we  cannot  speak  when  absent. 
Cannot  send  our  voices  from  us 
To  the  friends  that  dwell  afar  off ; 
Cannot  send  a secret  message, 

But  the  bearer  learns  our  secret. 


PICTURE-WRITING. 


173 


May  pervert  it,  may  betray  it, 

May  reveal  it  unto  others.” 

Thus  said  Hiawatha,  walking 
In  the  solitary  forest, 

Pondering,  musing  in  the  forest, 

On  the  welfare  of  liis  people. 

From  his  pouch  he  took  his  colors, 
Took  his  paints  of  different  colors, 

On  the  smooth  bark  of  a birch- tree 
Painted  many  shapes  and  figures, 
Wonderful  and  mystic  figures, 

And  each  figure  had  a meaning, 

Each  some  word  or  thought  suggested. 

Gitche  Manito  the  Mighty, 

He,  the  Master  of  Life,  was  painted 
As  an  egg,  with  points  projecting 
To  the  four  winds  of  the  heavens. 
Everywhere  is  the  Great  Spirit, 

Was  the  meaning  of  this  symbol. 

Mitclie  Manito  the  Mighty, 

He  the  dreadful  Spirit  of  Evil, 

As  a serpent  was  depicted. 

As  Kenabeek,  the  great  serpent. 

Very  crafty,  very  cunning, 

Is  the  creeping  Spirit  of  Evil, 

Was  the  meaning  of  this  symbol. 

Life  and  Death  he  drew  as  circles, 
Life  was  white,  but  Death  was  darkened  ; 
Sun  and  moon  and  stars  he  painted, 
Man  and  beast,  and  fish  and  reptile, 
Forests,  mountains,  lakes,  and  rivers. 

For  the  earth  he  drew  a straight  line, 
For  the  sky  a bow  above  it  ; 

White  the  space  between  for  daytime, 
Filled  with  little  stars  for  night-time  ; 
On  the  left  a point  for  sunrise, 

On  the  right  a point  for  sunset, 

On  the  top  a point  for  noontide, 

And  for  rain  and  cloudy  weather 
Waving  lines  descending  from  it. 

Footprints  pointing  towards  a wigwam 
W ere  a sign  of  invitation, 

Were  a sign  of  guests  assembling  ; 
Bloody  hands  with  palms  uplifted 
Were  a symbol  of  destruction, 

Were  a hostile  sign  and  symbol. 

All  these  things  did  Hiawatha 
Show  unto  his  wondering  people, 

And  interpreted  their  meaning, 

And  he  said  : “ Behold,  your  grave-posts 
Have  no  mark,  no  sign,  nor  symbol. 

Go  and  paint  them  all  with  figures  ; 
Each  one  with  its  household  symbol, 
With  its  own  ancestral  Totem  ; 

So  that  those  who  follow  after 

May  distinguish  them  and  know  them.” 

And  they  painted  on  the  grave-posts 


On  the  graves  yet  unforgotten, 

Each  his  own  ancestral  Totem, 

Each  the  symbol  of  his  household  ; 
Figures  of  the  Bear  and  Reindeer, 

Of  the  Turtle,  Crane,  and  Beaver, 

Each  inverted  as  a token 
That  the  owner  was  departed, 

That  the  chief  who  bore  the  symbol 
Lay  beneath  in  dust  and  ashes. 

And  the  Jossakeeds,  the  Prophets, 
The  Wabenos,  the  Magicians, 

And  the  Medicine-men,  the  Medas, 
Painted  upon  bark  and  deer-skin 
Figures  for  the  songs  they  chanted, 

For  each  song  a separate  symbol, 
Figures  mystical  and  awful, 

Figures  strange  and  brightly  colored  ; 
And  each  figure  had  its  meaning, 

Each  some  magic  song  suggested. 

The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 
Flashing  light  through  all  the  heaven  ; 
The  Great  Serpent,  the  Kenabeek, 

With  his  bloody  crest  erected, 

Creeping,  looking  into  heaven  ; 

In  the  sky  the  sun,  that  listens, 

And  the  moon  eclipsed  and  dying  ; 

Owl  and  eagle,  crane  and  hen-hawk, 
And  the  cormorant,  bird  of  magic  ; 
Headless  men,  that  walk  the  heavens, 
Bodies  lying  pierced  with  arrows, 
Bloody  hands  of  death  uplifted, 

Flags  on  graves,  and  great  war- captains 
Grasping  both  the  earth  and  heaven  ! 

Such  as  these  the  shapes  they  painted 
On  the  birch-bark  and  the  deer-skin  ; 
Songs  of  war  and  songs  of  hunting, 
Songs  of  medicine  and  of  magic, 

All  were  written  in  these  figures, 

For  each  figure  had  its  meaning, 

Each  its  separate  song  recorded. 

Nor  forgotten  was  the  Love-Song, 

The  most  subtle  of  all  medicines. 

The  most  potent  spell  of  magic, 
Dangerous  more  than  war  or  hunting  ! 
Thus  the  Love-Song  was  recorded, 
Symbol  and  interpretation. 

First  a human  figure  standing, 

Painted  in  the  brightest  scarlet ; 

T is  the  lover,  the  musician, 

And  the  meaning  is,  “ My  painting 
Makes  me  powerful  over  others.” 

Then  the  figure  seated,  singing, 
Playing  on  a drum  of  magic, 

And  the  interpretation,  “ Listen  ! 

T is  my  voice  you  hear,  my  singing ! ” 

Then  the  same  red  figure  seated 
In  the  shelter  of  a wigwam, 


174 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


And  the  meaning  of  the  symbol, 

“ I will  come  and  sit  beside  you 
In  the  mystery  of  my  passion  !” 

Then  two  figures,  man  and  woman, 
Standing  hand  in  hand  together 
With  their  hands  so  clasped  together 
That  they  seem  in  one  united, 

And  the  words  thus  represented 
Are,  “I  see  your  heart  within  you, 

And  your  cheeks  are  red  with  blushes  ! ” 
Next  the  maiden  on  an  island, 

In  the  centre  of  an  island  ; 

And  the  song  this  shape  suggested 
Was,  “Though  you  were  at  a distance, 
Were  upon  some  far- oft’  island, 

Such  the  spell  I cast  upon  you, 

Such  the  magic  power  of  passion, 

I could  straightway  draw  you  to  me  ! ” 
Then  the  figure  of  the  maiden 
Sleeping,  and  the  lover  near  her, 
Whispering  to  her  in  her  slumbers, 
Saying,  “ Though  you  were  far  from  me 
In  the  land  of  Sleep  and  Silence, 

Still  the  voice  of  love  would  reach  you  ! ” 
And  the  last  of  all  the  figures 
Was  a heart  within  a circle, 

Drawn  within  a magic  circle  ; 

And  the  image  had  this  meaning : 

“ Naked  lies  your  heart  before  me, 

To  your  naked  heart  I whisper  ! ” 

Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha, 

In  his  wisdom,  taught  the  people 
All  the  mysteries  of  painting, 

All  the  art  of  Picture-Writing, 

On  the  smooth  bark  of  the  birch -tree, 

On  the  white  skin  of  the  reindeer, 

On  the  grave-posts  of  the  village. 


XV. 

hiawatha’s  lamentation. 

In  those  days  the  Evil  Spirits, 

All  the  Manitos  of  mischief, 

Fearing  Hiawatha’s  wisdom, 

And  his  love  for  Chibiabos, 

Jealous  of  their  faithful  friendship, 
And  their  noble  words  and  actions, 
Made  at  length  a league  against  them, 
To  molest  them  and  destroy  them. 

Hiawatha,  wise  and  wary, 

Often  said  to  Chibiabos, 

“ 0 my  brother  ! do  not  leave  me, 
Lest  the  Evil  Spirits  harm  you ! ” 
Chibiabos,  young  and  heedless, 
Laughing  shook  his  coal-black  tresses, 


Answered  ever  sweet  and  childlike, 

“ Do  not  fear  for  me,  0 brother  ! 

Harm  and  evil  come  not  near  me  ! ” 
Once  when  Peboan,  the  Winter, 
Roofed  with  ice  the  Big-Sea- Water, 
When  the  snow-flakes,  whirling  down- 
ward, 

Hissed  among  the  withered  oak -leaves, 
Changed  the  pine-trees  into  wigwams, 
Covered  all  the  earth  with  silence,  — 
Armed  with  arrows,  shod  with  snow- 
shoes, 

Heeding  not  his  brother’s  warning, 
Fearing  not  the  Evil  Spirits, 

Forth  to  hunt  the  deer  with  antlers 
All  alone  went  Chibiabos. 

Right  across  the  Big-Sea-WTater 
Sprang  with  speed  the  deer  before  him. 
With  the  wind  and  snow  he  followed, 
O’er  the  treacherous  ice  he  followed, 
Wild  with  all  the  fierce  commotion 
And  the  rapture  of  the  hunting. 

But  beneath,  the  Evil  Spirits 
Lay  in  ambush,  waiting  for  him, 

Broke  the  treacherous  ice  beneath  him, 
Dragged  him  downward  to  the  bottom, 
Buried  in  the  sand  his  body. 

Unktahee,  the  god  of  water, 

He  the  god  of  the  Dacotahs, 

Drowned  him  in  the  deep  abysses 
Of  the  lake  of  Gitche  Gurnee. 

From  the  headlands  Hiawatha 
Sent  forth  such  a wail  of  anguish, 

Such  a fearful  lamentation, 

That  the  bison  paused  to  listen, 

And  the  wolves  howled  from  the  prairies. 
And  the  thunder  in  the  distance 
Starting  answered  “ Baim-wawa  ! ” 

Then  his  face  with  black  he  painted, 
With  his  robe  his  head  he  covered, 

In  his  wigwam  sat  lamenting, 

Seven  long  weeks  he  sat  lamenting, 
Uttering  still  this  moan  of  sorrow  : — 

“ He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  ! 

He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  ! 

He  has  gone  from  us  forever, 

He  has  moved  a little  nearer 
To  the  Master  of  all  music, 

To  the  Master  of  all  singing  ! 

0 my  brother,  Chibiabos  ! ” 

And  the  melancholy  fir-trees 
Waved  their  dark  green  fans  above 
him, 

Waved  their  purple  cones  above  him, 
Sighing  with  him  to  console  him, 
Mingling  with  his  lamentation 
Their  complaining,  their  lamenting. 


HIAWATHA’S  LAMENTATION. 


175 


Came  the  Spring,  and  all  the  forest 
Looked  in  vain  for  Cliibiabos  ; 

Sighed  the  rivulet,  Sebowisha, 

Sighed  the  rushes  in  the  meadow. 

From  the  tree-tops  sang  the  blue- 
bird, 

Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
“Chibiabos  ! Chibiabos  ! 

He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  ! ” 

From  the  wigwam  sang  the  robin, 

Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
“Chibiabos!  Chibiabos! 

He  is  dead,  the  sweetest  singer  ! ” 

And  at  night  through  all  the  forest 
Went  the  whippoorwill  complaining, 
Wailing  went  the  Wawonaissa, 
“Chibiabos  ! Chibiabos  ! 

He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  ! 

He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers  ! ” 

Then  the  medicine-men,  the  Medas, 
The  magicians,  the  Wabenos, 

And  the  Jossakeeds,  the  prophets, 

Came  to  visit  Hiawatha  ' 

Built  a Sacred  Lodge  beside  him, 

To  appease  him,  to  console  him, 

Walked  in  silent,  grave  procession, 
Bearing  each  a pouch  of  healing, 

Skin  of  beaver,  lynx,  or  otter, 

Filled  with  magic  roots  and  simples, 
Filled  with  very  potent  medicines. 

When  he  heard  their  steps  approach- 
ing, 

Hiawatha  ceased  lamenting, 

Called  no  more  on  Chibiabos  ; 

Naught  he  questioned,  naught  he  an- 
swered, 

But  his  mournful  head  uncovered. 

From  his  face  the  mourning  colors 
Washed  he  slowly  and  in  silence, 

Slowly  and  in  silence  followed 
Onward  to  the  Sacred  Wigwam. 

There  a magic  drink  they  gave  him, 
Made  of  Nahma-wusk,  the  spearmint, 
And  Wabeno-wusk,  the  yarrow, 

Roots  of  power,  and  herbs  of  healing  ; 
Beat  their  drums,  and  shook  their  rat- 
tles ; 

Chanted  singly  and  in  chorus, 

Mystic  songs  like  these,  they  chanted. 

“ I myself,  myself  ! behold  me  ! 

'T  is  the  great  Gray  Eagle  talking  ; 
Come,  ye  white  crows,  come  and  hear 
him  ! 

The  loud-speaking  thunder  helps  me  ; 
All  the  unseen  spirits  help  me  ; 

I can  hear  their  voices  calling, 

All  around  the  sky  I hear  them  ! 


I can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother, 

I can  heal  you,  Hiawatha  ! ” 

“ Hi-au-ha  ! ” replied  the  chorus, 
Way-ha-way  ! ” the  mystic  chorus. 

‘ ‘ Friends  of  mine  are  all  the  serpents  ! 
Hear  me  shake  my  skin  of  hen-hawk  ! 
Mahng,  the  white  loon,  I can  kill  him  ; 

I can  shoot  your  heart  and  kill  it ! 

I can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother, 

I can  heal  you,  Hiawatha  ! ” 

“ Hi-au-ha  ! ” replied  the  chorus. 

“ Way-ha-way  ! ” the  mystic  chorus. 

“ 1 myself,  myself  ! the  prophet ! 
When  1 speak  the  wigwam  trembles, 
Shakes  the  Sacred  Lodge  with  terror, 
Hands  unseen  begin  to  shake  it  ! 

When  I walk,  the  sky  I tread  on 
Bends  and  makes  a noise  beneath  me  ! 

I can  blow  you  strong,  my  brother  ! 

Rise  and  speak,  0 Hiawatha  ! ” 

“ Hi-au-ha  ! ” replied  the  chorus, 
“Way-ha-way  !”  the  mystic  chorus. 
Then  they  shook  their  medicine- 
pouches 

O’er  the  head  of  Hiawatha, 

Danced  their  medicine-dance  around 
him  ; 

And  upstarting  wild  and  haggard, 

Like  a man  from  dreams  awakened, 

He  was  healed  of  all  his  madness. 

As  the  clouds  are  swept  from  heaven, 
Straightway  from  his  brain  departed 
All  his  moody  melancholy  ; 

As  the  ice  is  swept  from  rivers, 
Straightway  from  his  heart  departed 
All  his  sorrow  and  affliction. 

Then  they  summoned  Chibiabos 
From  his  grave  beneath  the  waters, 
From  the  sands  of  Gitche  Gurnee 
Summoned  Hiawatha’s  brother. 

And  so  mighty  was  the  magic 
Of  that  cry  and  invocation, 

That  he  heard  it  as  he  lay  there 
Underneath  the  Big-Sea- Water  ; 

From  the  sand  he  rose  and  listened, 
Heard  the  music  and  the  singing, 

Came,  obedient  to  the  summons, 

To  the  doorway  of  the  wigwam, 

But  to  enter  they  forbade  him. 

Through  a chink  a coal  they  gave  him, 
Through  the  door  a burning  fire-brand  ; 
Ruler  in  the  Land  of  Spirits, 

Ruler  o’er  the  dead,  they  made  him, 
Telling  him  a lire  to  kindle 
For  all  those  that  died  thereafter, 
Camp-fires  for  their  night  encampments 
On  their  solitary  journey 


176 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


To  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 

To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 

From  the  village  of  his  childhood, 
From  the  homes  of  those  who  knew  him, 
Passing  silent  through  the  forest, 

Like  a smoke-wreath  wafted  sideways, 
Slowly  vanished  Chibiabos  ! 

Where  he  passed,  the  branches  moved 
not, 

Where  he  trod,  the  grasses  bent  not, 
And  the  fallen  leaves  of  last  year 
Made  no  sound  beneath  his  footsteps. 

Four  whole  days  he  journeyed  onward 
Down  the  pathway  of  the  dead  men  ; 

On  the  dead-man’s  strawberry  feasted, 
Crossed  the  melancholy  river, 

On  the  swinging  log  he  crossed  it, 

Came  unto  the  Lake  of  Silver, 

In  the  Stone  Canoe  was  carried 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 

To  the  land  of  ghosts  and  shadows. 

On  that  journey,  moving  slowly, 

Many  weary  spirits  saw  he, 

Panting  under  heavy  burdens, 

Laden  with  war-clubs,  bows  and  arrows, 
Robes  of  fur,  and  pots  and  kettles, 

And  with  food  that  friends  had  given 
For  that  solitary  journey. 

“ Ay  ! why  do  the  living,”  said  they, 
“ Lay  such  heavy  burdens  on  us  ! 

Better  were  it  to  go  naked, 

Better  were  it  to  go  fasting, 

Than  to  bear  such  heavy  burdens 
On  our  long  and  weary  journey  ! ” 

Forth  then  issued  Hiawatha, 
Wandered  eastward,  wandered  westward, 
Teaching  men  the  use  of  simples 
And  the  antidotes  for  poisons, 

And  the  cure  of  all  diseases. 

Thus  was  first  made  known  to  mortals 
All  the  mystery  of  Medamin, 

All  the  sacred  art  of  healing. 


XVI. 

PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 

You  shall  honr  how  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
He,  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 

Whom  the  people  called  the  Storm  Fool, 
Vexed  the  village  with  disturbance  ; 
You  shall  hear  of  all  bis  mischief, 

And  his  flight  from  Hiawatha, 

And  his  wondrous  transmigrations, 

And  the  end  of  his  adventures. 

On  the  shores  of  Gitelie  Gurnee, 


On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo, 

By  the  shining  Big-Sea-AVater 
Stood  the  lodge  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

It  was  he  who  in  his  frenzy 
Whirled  these  drifting  sands  together, 
On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo, 

When,  among  the  guests  assembled, 

He  so  merrily  and  madly 
Danced  at  Hiawatha’s  wedding, 

Danced  the  Beggar’s  Dance  to  please 
them. 

Now,  in  search  of  new  adventures, 
From  his  lodge  went  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Came  with  speed  into  the  village, 

Found  the  young  men  all  assembled 
In  the  lodge  of  old  Iagoo, 

Listening  to  his  monstrous  stories, 

To  his  wonderful  adventures. 

He  was  telling  them  the  story 
Of  Ojeeg,  the  Summer-Maker, 

How  he  made  a hole  in  heaven, 

Howt  he  climbed  up  into  heaven, 

And  let  out  the  summer- weather, 

The  perpetual,  pleasant  Summer  ; 

How  the  Otter  first  essayed  it ; 

How  the  Beaver,  Lynx,  and  Badger 
Tried  in  turn  the  great  achievement, 
From  the  summit  of  the  mountain 
Smote  their  fists  against  the  heavens, 
Smote  against  the  sky  their  foreheads, 
Cracked  the  sky,  but  could  not  break  it ; 
How  the  Wolverine,  uprising, 

Made  him  ready  for  the  encounter, 

Bent  his  knees  down,  like  a squirrel, 
Drew  his  arms  back,  like  a cricket. 

“Once  he  leaped,”  said  old  Iagoo, 

“ Once  he  leaped,  and  lo  ! above  him 
Bent  the  sky,  as  ice  in  rivers 
When  the  waters  rise  beneath  it  ; 

Twdce  he  leaped,  and  lo  ! above  him 
Cracked  the  sky,  as  ice  in  rivers 
When  the  freshet  is  at  highest  ! 

Thrive’  he  leaped,  and  lo  ! above  him 
Broke  the  shattered  sky  asunder, 

And  he  disappeared  within  it, 

And  Ojeeg,  the  Fisher  Weasel, 

With  a bound  went  in  behind  him  ! ” 

“ Hark  you  ! ” shouted  Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis 

As  he  entered  at  the  doorway  ; 

“ I am  tired  of  all  this  talking, 

Tired  of  old  Iagoo’s  stories, 

Tired  of  Hiawatha’s  wisdom. 

Here  is  something  to  amuse  you, 

Better  than  this  endless  talking.” 

Then  from  out  his  pouch  of  wolf-skin 
Forth  he  drew,  with  solemn  manner. 


PAU -PUK-KEEWIS. 


177 


All  the  game  of  Bowl  and  Counters, 
Pugasaing,  with  thirteen  pieces. 

White  on  one  side  were  they  painted, 
And  vermilion  on  the  other  ; 

Two  Kenabeeks  or  great  serpents, 

Two  Ininewug  or  wedge-men, 

One  great  war-club,  Pugainaugun, 

And  one  slender  fish,  the  Keego, 

Four  round  pieces,  Ozawabeeks, 

And  three  Sheshebwug  or  ducklings. 

All  were  made  of  bone  and  painted, 

All  except  the  Ozawabeeks  ; 

These  were  brass,  on  one  side  burnished, 
And  were  black  upon  the  other. 

In  a wooden  bowl  he  placed  them, 
Shook  and  jostled  them  together. 

Threw  them  on  the  ground  before  him. 
Thus  exclaiming  and  explaining  : 

“ Red  side  up  are  all  the  pieces, 

And  one  great  Kenabeek  standing 
On  the  bright  side  of  a brass  piece, 

On  a burnished  Ozawabeek  ; 

Thirteen  tens  and  eight  are  counted.” 
Then  again  he  shook  the  pieces, 

Shook  and  jostled  them  together. 

Threw  them  on  the  ground  before  him, 
Still  exclaiming  and  explaining  : 

“ White  are  both  the  great  Kenabeeks, 
White  the  Ininewug,  the  wedge-men, 
Red  are  all  the  other  pieces  ; 

Five  tens  and  an  eight  are  counted.” 
Thus  he  taught  the  game  of  hazard, 
Thus  displayed  it  and  explained  it, 
Running  through  its  various  chances, 
Various  changes,  various  meanings  : 
Twenty  curious  eyes  stared  at  him. 

Full  of  eagerness  stared  at  him. 

“ Many  games,”  said  old  Iagoo, 

“ Many  games  of  skill  and  hazard 
Have  I seen  in  different  nations, 

Have  I played  in  different  countries. 

He  who  plays  with  old  Iagoo 
Must  have  very  nimble  fingers  ; 

Though  you  think  yourself  so  skilful 
I can  beat  you,  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

I can  even  give  you  lessons 
In  your  game  of  Bowl  and  Counters  ! ” 
So  they  sat  and  played  together, 

All  the  old  men  and  the  young  men, 
Played  for  dresses,  weapons,  wampum, 
Played  till  midnight,  played  till  morn- 
ing* 

Played  until  the  Yenadizze, 

Till  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Of  their  treasures  had  despoiled  them, 
Of  the  best  of  all  their  dresses, 

Shirts  of  deer-skin,  robes  of  ermine, 

12 


Belts  of  wampum,  crests  of  feathers. 
Warlike  weapons,  pipes  and  pouches. 
Twenty  eyes  glared  wildly  at  him, 

Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  him. 

Said  the  lucky  Pau-Puk-Keewis  : 

“In  my  wigwam  I am  lonely, 

In  my  wanderings  and  adventures 
I have  need  of  a companion, 

Fain  would  have  a Meshinauwa, 

An  attendant  and  pipe-bearer. 

1 will  venture  all  these  winnings, 

All  these  garments  heaped  about  me, 

All  this  wampum,  all  these  feathers, 

On  a single  throw  will  venture 
All  against  the  young  man  yonder  ! ” 

T was  a youth  of  sixteen  summers, 

’T  was  a nephew  of  Iagoo  ; 
Face-in-a-Mist,  the  people  called  him. 

As  the  fire  burns  in  a pipe -head 
Dusky  red  beneath  the  ashes, 

So  beneath  his  shaggy  eyebrows 
Glowed  the  eyes  of  old  Iagoo. 

“Ugh  ! ” he  answered  very  fiercely  ; 

“ Ugh  ! ” they  answered  all  and  each 
one. 

Seized  the  wooden  bowl  the  old  man, 
Closely  in  his  bony  fingers 
Clutched  the  fatal  bowl,  Onagon, 

Shook  it  fiercely  and  with  fury, 

Made  the  pieces  ring  together 
As  he  threw  them  down  before  him. 

Red  were  both  the  great  Kenabeeks, 
Red  the  Ininewug,  the  wedge-men, 

Reck  the  Sheshebwug,  the  ducklings. 
Black  the  four  brass  Ozawabeeks, 

White  alone  the  fish,  the  Keego  ; 

Only  five  the  pieces  counted  ! 

Then  the  smiling  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Shook  the  bowl  and  threw  the  pieces  ; 
Lightly  in  the  air  he  tossed  them, 

And  they  fell  about  him  scattered  ; 
Dark  and  bright  the  Ozawabeeks, 

Red  and  white  the  other  pieces, 

And  upright  among  the  others 
One  Ininewug  was  standing, 

Even  as  crafty  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Stood  alone  among  the  players, 

Saying,  “ Five  tens  ! mine  the  game  is  ! ” 

Twenty  eyes  glared  at  him  fiercely, 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  him, 
As  he  turned  and  left  the  wigwam, 
Followed  by  his  Meshinauwa, 

By  the  nephew  of  Iagoo, 

By  the  tall  and  graceful  stripling. 
Bearing  in  bis  arms  the  winnings, 

Shirts  of  deer-skin,  robes  of  ermine, 
Belts  of  wampum,  pipes  and  weapons. 


178 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


“ Carry  them,”  said  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pointing  with  his  fan  of  feathers, 

“ To  my  wigwam  far  to  eastward, 

On  the  dunes  of  Nagow  Wudjoo  ! ” 

Hot  and  red  with  smoke  and  gambling 
Were  the  eyes  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As  he  came  forth  to  the  freshness 
Of  the  pleasant  Summer  morning. 

All  the  birds  were  singing  gayly, 

All  the  streamlets  flowing  swdftly, 

And  the  heart  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sang  with  pleasure  as  the  birds  sing, 
Beat  with  triumph  like  the  streamlets, 
As  he  wandered  through  the  village, 

In  the  early  gray  of  morning, 

With  his  fan  of  turkey-feathers, 

With  his  plumes  and  tufts  of  swan’s 
down, 

Till  he  reached  the  farthest  wigwam, 
Reached  the  lodge  of  Hiawatha. 

Silent  was  it  and  deserted  ; 

No  one  met  him  at  the  doorway, 

No  one  came  to  bid  him  welcome  ; 

But  the  birds  were  singing  round  it, 

In  and  out  and  round  the  doorway, 
Hopping,  singing,  fluttering,  feeding, 
And  aloft  upon  the  ridge-pole 
Kahgahgee,  the  King  of  Ravens, 

Sat  with  fiery  eyes,  and,  screaming, 
Flapped  his  wings  at  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

“All  are  gone  ! the  lodge  is  empty  ! ” 
Thus  it  was  spake  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

In  his  heart  resolving  mischief  ; — 

“ Gone  is  wary  Hiawatha, 

Gone  the  silly  Laughing  Water, 

Gone  Nokomis,  the  old  woman, 

And  the  lodge  is  left  unguarded  ! ” 

By  the  neck  he  seized  the  raven, 
Whirled  it  round  him  like  a rattle, 

Like  a medicine-pouch  he  shook  it, 
Strangled  Kahgahgee,  the  raven, 

From  the  ridge-pole  of  the  wigwam 
Left  its  lifeless  body  hanging, 

As  an  insult  to  its  master, 

As  a taunt  to  Hiawratha. 

With  a stealthy  step  he  entered, 
Round  the  lodge  in  wild  disorder 
Threw  the  household  things  about  him, 
Piled  together  in  confusion 
Bowls  of'  wood  and  earthen  kettles, 
Robes  of  buffalo  and  beaver, 

Skins  of  otter,  lynx,  and  ermine, 

As  an  insult  to  Nokomis, 

As  a taunt  to  Minnehaha. 

Then  departed  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Whistling,  singing  through  the  forest, 
Whistling  gayly  to  the  squirrels, 


Who  from  hollow  boughs  above  him 
Dropped  their  acorn-shells  upon  him, 
Singing  gayly  to  the  wood  birds, 

Who  from  out  the  leafy  darkness 
Answered  with  a song  as  merry. 

Then  he  climbed  the  rocky  headlands, 
Looking  o’er  the  Gitche  Gurnee, 

Perched  himself  upon  their  summit, 
Waiting  full  of  mirth  and  mischief 
The  return  of  Hiawatha. 

Stretched  upon  his  back  he  lay  there ; 
Far  below7  him  plashed  the  wraters, 
Plashed  and  washed  the  dreamy  wraters  ; 
Far  above  him  swam  the  heavens, 

Swam  the  dizzy,  dreamy  heavens  ; 
Round  him  hovered,  fluttered,  rustled, 
Hiawatha’s  mountain  chickens, 

Flock -wise  swept  and  wheeled  about  him, 
Almost  brushed  him  with  their  pinions. 

And  he  killed  them  as  he  lay  there, 
Slaughtered  them  by  tens  and  twenties, 
Threw  their  bodies  down  the  headland, 
Threw  them  on  the  beach  below  him, 
Till  at  length  Kayoshk,  the  sea-gull, 
Perched  upon  a crag  above  them, 
Shouted  : “ It  is  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! 

He  is  slaying  us  by  hundreds  ! 

Send  a message  to  our  brother, 

Tidings  send  to  Hiawatha  ! ” 


XVII. 

THE  HUNTING  OF  I’AU-PUK-KEEWIS. 

Full  of  wrath  was  Hiawatha 
When  he  came  into  the  village, 

Found  the  people  in  confusion, 

Heard  of  all  the  misdemeanors, 

All  the  malice  and  the  mischief, 

Of  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

Hard  his  breath  came  through  his 
nostrils, 

Through  his  teeth  he  buzzed  and  muttered 
Words  of  anger  and  resentment, 

Hot  and  humming,  like  a hornet. 

“ I will  slay  this  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Slay  this  mischief-maker  ! ” said  he. 
“Not  so  long  and  wide  the  world  is, 
Not  so  rude  and  rough  the  way  is, 

That  my  wrath  shall  not  attain  him, 
That  my  vengeance  shall  not  reach  him  ! ” 
Then  in  swrift  pursuit  departed 
Hiawatha  and  the  hunters 
On  the  trail  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Through  the  forest,  where  he  passed  it, 
To  the  headlands  where  he  rested  ; 


THE  HUNTING  OF  PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 


179 


But  they  found  not  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Only  in  the  trampled  grasses, 

In  the  whortleberry-bushes, 

Found  the  couch  where  he  had  rested, 
Found  the  impress  of  his  body. 

From  the  lowlands  far  beneath  them, 
From  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow, 
Pau-Puk-Keewis,  turning  backward, 
Made  a gesture  of  defiance, 

Made  a gesture  of  derision  ; 

And  aloud  cried  Hiawatha, 

From  the  summit  of  the  mountain  : 
“Hot  so  long  and  wide  the  world  is, 
Hot  so  rude  and  rough  the  way  is, 

But  my  wrath  shall  overtake  you, 

And  my  vengeance  shall  attain  you  ! ” 

Oven  rock  and  over  river, 

Thorough  bush,  and  brake,  and  forest, 
Ran  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ; 

Like  an  antelope  he  bounded, 

Till  he  came  unto  a streamlet 
In  the  middle  of  the  forest, 

To  a streamlet  still  and  tranquil, 

That  had  overflowed  its  margin, 

To  a dam  made  by  the  beavers, 

To  a pond  of  quiet  water, 

Where  knee-deep  the  trees  were  standing, 
Where  the  water-lilies  floated, 

Where  the  rushes  waved  and  whispered. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
On  the  dam  of  trunks  and  branches. 
Through  whose  chinks  the  water  spouted, 
O’er  whose  summit  flowed  the  streamlet. 
From  the  bottom  rose  the  beaver, 
Looked  with  two  great  eyes  of  wonder, 
Eyes  that  seemed  to  ask  a question, 

At  the  stranger,  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O’er  his  ankles  flowed  the  streamlet, 
Flowed  the  bright  and  silvery  water, 
And  he  spake  unto  the  beaver, 

With  a smile  he  spake  in  this  wise  : 

“ 0 my  friend  Ahmeek,  the  beaver, 
Cool  and  pleasant  is  the  water  ; 

Let  me  dive  into  the  water. 

Let  me  rest  there  in  your  lodges  ; 
Change  me,  too,  into  a beaver  ! ” 

Cautiously  replied  the  beaver, 

With  reserve  he  thus  made  answer  : 

“ Let  me  first  consult  the  others, 

Let  me  ask  the  other  beavers.” 

Down  he  sank  into  the  water, 

Heavily  sank  he,  as  a stone  sinks, 

Down  among  the  leaves  and  branches, 

D own  and  matted  at  the  bottom. 

On  the  dam  stood  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
O’er  his  ankles  flowed  the  streamlet. 


Spouted  through  the  chinks  below  him 
Dashed  upon  the  stones  beneath  him, 
Spread  serene  and  calm  before  him, 

And  the  sunshine  and  the  shadows 
Fell  in  flecks  and  gleams  upon  him, 

Fell  in  little  shining  patches, 

Through  the  waving,  rustling  branches. 

From  the  bottom  rose  the  beavers, 
Silently  above  the  surface 
Rose  one  head  and  then  another, 

Till  the  pond  seemed  full  of  beavers. 

Full  of  black  and  shining  faces. 

To  the  beavers  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Spake  entreating,  said  in  this  wise  : 

“ Very  pleasant  is  your  dwelling, 

0 my  friends  ! and  safe  from  danger  ; 
Can  you  not  with  all  your  cunning, 

All  your  wisdom  and  contrivance, 
Change  me,  too,  into  a beaver  ? ” 

“Yes  !”  replied  Ahmeek,  the  beaver, 
He  the  King  of  all  the  beavers, 

“ Let  yourself  slide  down  among  us, 
Down  into  the  tranquil  water.” 

Down  into  the  pond  among  them 
Silently  sank  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ; 

Black  became  his  shirt  of  deer-skin, 
Black  his  moccasins  and  leggings, 

In  a broad  black  tail  behind  him 
Spread  his  fox-tails  and  his  fringes  ; 

He  was  changed  into  a beaver. 

“Make  me  large,”  said  Pau-Puk- 
Keewis, 

“ Make  me  large  and  make  me  larger, 
Larger  than  the  other  beavers.” 

“Yes,”  the  beaver  chief  responded, 

“ When  our  lodge  below  you  enter, 

In  our  wigwam  we  will  make  you 
Ten  times  larger  than  the  others.” 

Thus  into  the  clear,  brown  water 
Silently  sank  Pau-Puk-Keewis  : 

Found  the  bottom  covered  over 
With  the  trunks  of  trees  and  branches, 
Hoards  of  food  against  the  winter, 

Piles  and  heaps  against  the  famine ; 
Found  the  lodge  with  arching  door- 
way, 

Leading  into  spacious  chambers. 

Here  they  made  him  large  and  larger, 
Made  him  largest  of  the  beavers, 

Ten  times  larger  than  the  others. 

“You  shall  be  our  ruler,”  said  they  ; 

“ Chief  and  King  of  all  the  beavers.” 

But  not  long  had  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sat  in  state  among  the  beavers, 

When  there  came  a voice  of  warning 
From  the  watchman  at  his  station 
In  the  water- flags  and  lilies. 


180 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Saying,  “ Here  is  Hiawatha  ! 

Hiawatha  with  his  hunters  ! ” 

Then  they  heard  a cry  above  them. 
Heard  a shouting  and  a tramping, 

Heard  a crashing  and  a rushing, 

And  the  water  round  and  o’er  them 
Sank  and  sucked  away  in  eddies, 

And  they  knew  their  dam  was  broken. 

On  the  lodge’s  roof  the  hunters 
Leaped,  and  broke  it  all  asunder  ; 
Streamed  the  sunshine  through  the 
crevice. 

Sprang  the  beavers  through  the  doorway, 
Hid  themselves  in  deeper  water. 

In  the  channel  of  the  streamlet  ; 

But  the  mighty  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Could  not  pass  beneath  the  doorway ; 

He  was  puffed  with  pride  and  feeding, 
He  was  swollen  like  a bladder. 

Through  the  roof  looked  Hiawatha, 
Cried  aloud,  “ O Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! 

Vain  are  all  your  craft  and  cunning, 
Yain  your  manifold  disguises  ! 

Well  1 know  you,  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! ” 
With  their  clubs  they  beat  and  bruised 
him. 

Beat  to  death  poor  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pounded  him  as  maize  is  pounded. 

Till  his  skull  was  crushed  to  pieces. 

Six  tall  hunters,  lithe  and  limber, 
Bore  him  home  on  poles  and  branches. 
Bore  the  body  of  the  beaver  ; 

But  the  ghost,  the  Jeebi  in  him, 
Thought  and  felt  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Still  lived  on  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

And  it  fluttered,  strove,  and  struggled, 
Waving  hither,  waving  thither. 

As  the  curtains  of  a wigwam 
Struggle  with  their  thongs  of  deer-skin, 
When  the  wintry  wind  is  blowing  ; 

Till  it  drew  itself  together, 

Till  it  rose  up  from  the  body. 

Till  it  took  the  form  and  features 
Of  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Vanishing  into  the  forest. 

But  the  wary  Hiawatha 
Saw  the  figure  ere  it  vanished, 

Saw  the  form  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Glide  into  the  soft  blue  shadow 
Of  the  pine-trees  of  the  forest ; 

Toward  the  squares  of  white  beyond  it, 
Toward  an  opening  in  the  forest. 

Like  a wind  it  rushed  and  panted, 
Bending  all  the  boughs  before  it. 

And  behind  it,  as  the  rain  comes. 

Came  the  steps  of  Hiawatha. 

To  a lake  with  many  islands 


Came  the  breathless  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Where  among  the  water-lilies 
Pishnekuh,  the  brant,  were  sailing  ; 
Through  the  tufts  of  rushes  floating, 
Steering  through  the  reedy  islands. 

Now  their  broad  black  beaks  they  lifted, 
Now  they  plunged  beneath  the  water, 
Now  they  darkened  in  the  shadow, 

Now  they  brightened  in  the  sunshine. 

“Pishnekuh  ! ” cried  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
“ Pishnekuh  ! my  brothers  ! ” said  he, 

“ Change  me  to  a brant  with  plumage. 
With  a shining  neck  and  feathers, 

Make  me  large,  and  make  me  larger, 

Ten  times  larger  than  the  others.” 
Straightway  to  a brant  they  changed 
him, 

With  two  huge  and  dusky  pinions. 

With  a bosom  smooth  and  rounded. 
With  a bill  like  two  great  paddles. 

Made  him  larger  than  the  others. 

Ten  times  larger  than  the  largest. 

Just  as,  shouting  from  the  forest. 

On  the  shore  stood  Hiawatha. 

Up  they  rose  with  cry  and  clamor. 
With  a whir  and  beat  of  pinions, 

Rose  up  from  the  reedy  islands. 

From  the  water-flags  and  lilies. 

And  they  said  to  Pau-Puk-Keewis  r 
“ In  your  flying,  look  not  downward, 
Take  good  heed,  and  look  not  downward. 
Lest  some  strange  mischance  should  hap  > 
pen. 

Lest  some  great  mishap  befall  you  ! ” 
Fast  and  far  they  fled  to  northward. 
Fast  and  far  through  mist  and  sunshine. 
Fed  among  the  moors  and  fen-lands. 
Slept  among  the  reeds  and  rushes. 

On  the  morrow  as  they  journeyed. 
Buoyed  and  lifted  by  the  South-wind, 
Wafted  onward  by  the  South- wind, 
Blowing  fresh  and  strong  behind  them. 
Rose  a sound  of  human  voices, 

Rose  a clamor  from  beneath  them. 

From  the  lodges  of  a village, 

From  the  people  miles  beneath  them. 

For  the  people  of  the  village 
Saw  the  flock  of  brant  with  wonder. 

Saw  the  wings  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Flapping  far  up  in  the  ether. 

Broader  than  two  doorway  curtains. 

Pau-Puk-Keewis  heard  the  shouting, 
Knew  the  voice  of  Hiawatha, 

Knew  the  outcry  of  Iagoo, 

And,  forgetful  of  the  warning, 

Drew  his  neck  in,  and  looked  downward, 
And  the  wind  that  blew  behind  him 


THE  HUNTING  OF  PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 


181 


Caught  his  mighty  fan  of  feathers, 

Sent  him  wheeling,  whirling  downward  ! 

All  in  vain  did  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Struggle  to  regain  his  balance  ! 

Whirling  round  and  round  and  down- 
ward, 

He  beheld  in  turn  the  village 
And  in  turn  the  flock  above  him, 

Saw  the  village  coming  nearer, 

And  the  flock  receding  farther, 

Heard  the  voices  growing  louder, 

Heard  the  shouting  and  the  laughter  ; 
Saw  no  more  the  flock  above  him, 

Only  saw  the  earth  beneath  him  ; 

Dead  out  of  the  empty  heaven. 

Dead  among  the  shouting  people, 

With  a heavy  sound  and  sullen, 

Fell  the  brant  with  broken  pinions. 

But  his  soul,  his  ghost,  his  shadow, 
Still  survived  as  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Took  again  the  form  and  features 
Of  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 

And  again  went  rushing  onward, 
Followed  fast  by  Hiawatha, 

Crying  : “ Not  so  wide  the  world  is, 

Not  so  long  and  rough  the  way  is, 

But  my  wrath  shall  overtake  you, 

But  my  vengeance  shall  attain  you  ! ” 

And  so  near  he  came,  so  near  him, 
That  his  hand  was  stretched  to  seize  him, 
His  right  hand  to  seize  and  hold  him, 
When  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Whirled  and  spun  about  in  circles, 
Fanned  the  air  into  a whirlwind, 

Danced  the  dust  and  leaves  about  him, 
And  amid  the  whirling  eddies 
Sprang  into  a hollow  oak-tree, 

Changed  himself  into  a serpent, 

Gliding  out  through  root  and  rubbish. 

With  his  right  hand  Hiawatha 
Smote  amain  the  hollow  oak-tree, 

Rent  it  into  shreds  and  splinters, 

Left  it  lying  there  in  fragments. 

But  in  vain  ; for  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Once  again  in  human  figure, 

Full  in  sight  ran  on  before  him, 

Sped  away  in  gust  and  whirlwind, 

On  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gurnee, 
Westward  by  the  Big-Sea- Water, 

Came  unto  the  rocky  headlands, 

To  the  Pictured  Rocks  of  sandstone, 
Looking  over  lake  and  landscape. 

And  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain, 
He  the  Manito  of  Mountains, 

Opened  wide  his  rocky  doorways, 
Opened  wide  his  deep  abysses, 

Giving  Pau-Puk-Keewis  shelter 


In  his  caverns  dark  and  dreary, 

Bidding  Pau-Puk-Keewis  welcome 
To  his  gloomy  lodge  of  sandstone. 

There  without  stood  Hiawatha, 

Found  the  doorways  closed  against  him, 
With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 

Smote  great  caverns  in  the  sandstone, 
Cried  aloud  in  tones  of  thunder, 

“ Open  ! 1 am  Hiawatha  ! ” 

But  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain 
Opened  not,  and  made  no  answer 
From  the  silent  crags  of  sandstone, 

From  the  gloomy  rock  abysses. 

Then  he  raised  his  hands  to  heaven, 
Called  imploring  on  the  tempest, 

Called  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 

And  the  thunder,  Annemeekee  ; 

And  they  came  with  night  and  darkness, 
Sweeping  down  the  Big-Sea- Water 
From  the  distant  Thunder  Mountains  ; 
And  the  trembling  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Heard  the  footsteps  of  the  thunder. 

Saw  the  red  eyes  of  the  lightning, 

Was  afraid,  and  crouched  and  trembled. 

Then  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 
Smote  the  doorways  of  the  caverns, 

With  his  war-club  smote  the  doorways, 
Smote  the  jutting  crags  of  sandstone, 
And  the  thunder,  Annemeekee, 

Shouted  down  into  the  caverns, 

Saying,  “ Where  is  Pau-Puk-Keewis  ! 
And  the  crags  fell,  and  beneath  them 
Dead  among  the  rocky  ruins 
Lay  the  cunning  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Lay  the  handsome  Yenadizze, 

Slain  in  his  own  human  figure. 

Ended  were  his  wild  adventures, 
Ended  were  his  tricks  and  gambols, 
Ended  all  his  craft  and  cunning, 

Ended  all  his  mischief-making, 

All  his  gambling  and  his  dancing, 

All  his  wooing  of  the  maidens. 

Then  the  noble  Hiawatha 
Took  his  soul,  his  ghost,  his  shadow. 
Spake  and  said  : “0  Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Never  more  in  human  figure 
Shall  you  search  for  new  adventures  ; 
Never  more  with  jest  and  laughter 
Dance  the  dust  and  leaves  in  whirlwinds  f 
But  above  there  in  the  heavens 
You  shall  soar  and  sail  in  circles  ; 

I will  change  you  to  an  eagle, 

To  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle, 

Chief  of  all  the  fowls  with  feathers, 
Chief  of  Hiawatha’s  chickens.” 

And  the  name  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Lingers  still  among  the  people, 


182 


THE  SONG  OE  HIAWATHA. 


Lingers  still  among  the  singers, 

And  among  the  story-tellers  ; 

And  in  Winter,  when  the  snow-flakes 
Whirl  in  eddies  round  the  lodges, 

When  the  wind  in  gusty  tumult 
O’er  the  smoke-flue  pipes  and  whistles, 
“There,”  they  cry,  “comes  Pau-Puk- 
Keewis  ; 

He  is  dancing  through  the  village, 

He  is  gathering  in  his  harvest  ! ” 


XVIII. 

THE  DEATH  OF  KWASIND. 

Far  and  wide  among  the  nations 
Spread  the  name  and  fame  of  Kwasind  ; 
No  man  dared  to  strive  with  Kwasind, 
No  man  could  compete  with  Kwasind. 
But  the  mischievous  Puk-Wudjies, 

They  the  envious  Little  People, 

They  the  fairies  and  the  pygmies, 
Plotted  and  conspired  against  him. 

“ If  this  hateful  Kwasind,”  said  they, 
“If  this  great,  outrageous  fellow 
Goes  on  thus  a little  longer, 

Tearing  everything  he  touches, 

Rending  everything  to  pieces, 

Filling  all  the  world  with  wonder, 

What  becomes  of  the  Puk-Wudjies  ? 
Who  will  care  for  the  Puk-Wucljies  ? 

He  will  tread  us  down  like  mushrooms, 
Drive  us  all  into  the  water. 

Give  our  bodies  to  be  eaten 
By  the  wicked  Nee-ba-naw-baigs, 

By  the  Spirits  of  the  water  ! ” 

So  the  angry  Little  People 
All  conspired  against  the  Strong  Man, 
All  conspired  to  murder  Kwasind, 

Yes,  to  rid  the  world  of  Kwasind, 

The  audacious,  overbearing, 

Heartless,  haughty,  dangerous  Kwasind ! 
Now  this  wondrous  strength  of  Kwa- 
sind 

In  his  crown  alone  was  seated  ; 

In  his  crown  too  was  his  weakness  ; 
There  alone  could  he  be  wounded, 
Nowhere  else  could  weapon  pierce  him, 
Nowhere  else  could  weapon  harm  him. 

Even  there  the  only  weapon 
That  could  wound  him,  that  could  slay 
him, 

Was  the  seed-cone  of  the  pine-tree, 

Was  the  blue  cone  of  the  fir-tree. 

This  was  Kwasind’s  fatal  secret, 

Known  to  no  man  among  mortals  ; 


But  the  cunning  Little  People, 

The  Puk-Wudjies,  knew  the  secret, 
Knew  the  only  way  to  kill  him. 

So  they  gathered  cones  together, 
Gathered  seed-cones  of  the  pine-tree, 
Gathered  blue  cones  of  the  fir-tree, 

In  the  woods  by  Taquamenaw, 

Brought  them  to  the  river’s  margin, 
Heaped  them  in  great  piles  together, 
Where  the  red  rocks  from  the  margin 
Jutting  overhang  the  river. 

There  they  lay  in  wait  for  Kwasind, 

The  malicious  Little  People. 

’T  was  an  afternoon  in  Summer ; 

Very  hot  and  still  the  air  was, 

Very  smooth  the  gliding  river, 
Motionless  the  sleeping  shadows  : 
Insects  glistened  in  the  sunshine, 
Insects  skated  on  the  water, 

Filled  the  drowsy  air  with  buzzing, 
With  a far  resounding  war-cry. 

Down  the  river  came  the  Strong  Man, 
In  his  birch  canoe  came  Kwasind, 
Floating  slowly  down  the  current 
Of  the  sluggish  Taquamenaw, 

Very  languid  with  the  weather, 

Very  sleepy  with  the  silence. 

From  the  overhanging  branches, 
From  the  tassels  of  the  birch-trees, 

Soft  the  Spirit  of  Sleep  descended  ; 

By  his  airy  hosts  surrounded, 

His  invisible  attendants, 

Came  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin  ; 
Like  the  burnished  Dush-kwo-ne-she, 
Like  a dragon-fly,  he  hovered 
O’er  the  drowsy  head  of  Kwasind. 

To  his  ear  there  came  a murmur 
As  of  waves  upon  a sea-shore, 

As  of  far-off  tumbling  waters, 

As  of  winds  among  the  pine-trees ; 

And  he  felt  upon  his  forehead 
Blows  of  little  airy'  war-clubs, 

Wielded  by  the  slumbrous  legions 
Of  the  Spirit  of  Sleep,  Nepahwin, 

As  of  some  one  breathing  on  him. 

At  the  first  blow  of  their  war-clubs, 
Fell  a drowsiness  on  Kwasind  ; 

At  the  second  blow  they  smote  him, 
Motionless  his  paddle  rested  ; 

At  the  third,  before  his  vision 
Reeled  the  landscape  into  darkness, 
Very  sound  asleep  was  Kwasind. 

So  he  floated  down  the  river, 

Like  a blind  man  seated  upright, 
Floated  down  the  Taquamenaw, 
Underneath  the  trembling  birch -trees. 
Underneath  the  wooded  headlands, 


THE  GHOSTS. 


183 


Underneath  the  war  encampment 
Of  the  pygmies,  the  Puk-Wudjies. 

There  they  stood,  all  armed  and  wait- 
ing* 

Hurled  the  pine-cones  down  upon  him, 
Struck  him  on  his  brawny  shoulders, 

On  his  crown  defenceless  struck  him. 

“ Death  to  Kwasind  ! ” was  the  sudden 
War-cry  of  the  Little  People. 

And  he  sideways  swayed  and  tumbled, 
Sideways  fell  into  the  river, 

Plunged  beneath  the  sluggish  water 
Headlong,  as  an  . otter  plunges  ; 

And  the  birch-canoe,  abandoned, 

Drifted  empty  down  the  river, 

Bottom  upward  swerved  and  drifted  : 
Nothing  more  was  seen  of  Kwasind. 

But  the  memory  of  the  Strong  Man 
Lingered  long  among  the  people, 

And  whenever  through  the  forest 
Raged  and  roared  the  wintry  tempest, 
And  the  branches,  tossed  and  troubled, 
Creaked  and  groaned  and  split  asunder, 
“ Kwasind  ! ” cried  they  ; “ that  is 
Kwasind  ! 

He  is  gathering  in  his  fire-wood  ! ” 


XIX. 

THE  GHOSTS. 

Never  stoops  the  soaring  vulture 
On  his  quarry  in  the  desert, 

On  the  sick  or  wounded  bison, 

But  another  vulture,  watching 
From  his  high  aerial  look-out, 

Sees  the  downward  plunge,  and  follows  ; 
And  a third  pursues  the  second, 

Coming  from  the  invisible  ether, 

First  a speck,  and  then  a vulture, 

Till  the  air  is  dark  with  pinions. 

So  disasters  come  not  singly  ; 

But  as  if  they  watched  and  waited, 
Scanning  one  another’s  motions, 

When  the  first  descends,  the  others 
Follow,  follow,  gathering  flock- wise 
Round  their  victim,  sick  and  wounded, 
First  a shadow,  then  a sorrow, 

Till  the  air  is  dark  with  anguish. 

Now,  o’er  all  the  dreary  Northland, 
Mighty  Peboan,  the  Winter, 

Breathing  on  the  lakes  and  rivers, 

Into  stone  had  changed  their  waters. 
From  his  hair  he  shook  the  snow-flakes, 
Till  the  plains  were  strewn  with  white- 
ness, 


One  uninterrupted  level, 

As  if,  stooping,  the  Creator 

With  his  hand  had  smoothed  them  over. 

Through  the  forest,  wide  and  wailing, 
Roamed  the  hunter  on  his  snow-shoes  ; 
In  the  village  worked  the  women, 
Pounded  maize,  or  dressed  the  deer-skin  ; 
And  the  young  men  played  together 
On  the  ice  the  noisy  ball-play, 

On  the  plain  the  dance  of  snow-shoes. 

One  dark  evening,  after  sundown, 

In  her  wigwam  Laughing  Water 
Sat  with  old  Nokomis,  waiting 
For  the  steps  of  Hiawatha 
Homeward  from  the  hunt  returning. 

On  their  faces  gleamed  the  fire-light. 
Painting  them  with  streaks  of  crimson, 
In  the  eyes  of  old  Nokomis 
Glimmered  like  the  watery  moonlight, 
In  the  eyes  of  Laughing  Water 
Glistened  like  the  sun  in  water ; 

And  behind  them  crouched  their  shadows 
In  the  corners  of  the  wigwam, 

And  the  smoke  in  wreaths  above  them 
Climbed  and  crowded  through  the  smoke- 
flue. 

Then  the  curtain  of  the  doorway 
From  without  was  slowly  lifted  ; 
Brighter  glowed  the  fire  a moment, 

And  a moment  swerved  the  smoke- 
wreath, 

As  two  women  entered  softly, 

Passed  the  doorway  uninvited,  . 
Without  word  of  salutation, 

Without  sign  of  recognition, 

Sat  down  in  the  farthest  corner, 
Crouching  low  among  the  shadows. 

From  their  aspect  and  their  garments, 
Strangers  seemed  they  in  the  village  ; 
Very  pale  and  haggard  were  they, 

As  they  sat  there  sad  and  silent, 
Trembling,  cowering  with  the  shadows. 

Was  it  the  wind  above  the  smoke-flue, 
Muttering  down  into  the  wigwam  ? 

Was  it  the  owl,  the  Koko-koho, 

Hooting  from  the  dismal  forest  ? 

Sure  a voice  said  in  the  silence  : 

“ These  are  corpses  clad  in  garments, 
These  are  ghosts  that  come  to  haunt  you, 
From  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 

From  the  land  of  the  Hereafter  ! ” 
Homeward  now  came  Hiawatha 
From  his  hunting  in  the  forest, 

With  the  snow  upon  his  tresses, 

And  the  red  deer  on  his  shoulders. 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Down  he  threw  his  lifeless  burden  ; 


184 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Nobler,  handsomer  she  thought  him, 
Than  when  first  he  came  to  woo  her, 
First  threw  down  the  deer  before  her, 

As  a token  of  his  wishes, 

As  a promise  of  the  future. 

Then  he  turned  and  saw  the  strangers, 
Cowering,  crouching  with  the  shadows  ; 
Said  within  himself,  44  Who  are  they  ? 
What  strange  guests  has  Minnehaha  ? ” 
But  he  questioned  not  the  strangers, 
Only  spake  to  bid  them  welcome 
To  his  lodge,  his  food,  his  fireside. 

When  the  evening  meal  was  ready, 
And  the  deer  had  been  divided, 

Both  the  pallid  guests,  the  strangers, 
Springing  from  among  the  shadows, 
Seized  upon  the  choicest  portions, 

Seized  the  white  fat  of  the  roebuck, 

Set  apart  for  Laughing  Water, 

For  the  wife  of  Hiawatha  ; 

Without  asking,  without  thanking, 
Eagerly  devoured  the  morsels, 

Flitted  back  among  the  shadows 
In  the  corner  of  the  wigwam. 

Not  a word  spake  Hiawatha, 

Not  a motion  made  Nokomis, 

Not  a gesture  Laughing  W ater  ; 

Not  a change  came  o’er  their  features  ; 
Only  Minnehaha  softly 
Whispered,  saying,  44  They  are  famished  ; 
Let  them  do  what  best  delights  them  ; 
Let  them  eat,  for  they  are  famished.  ” 

Many  a daylight  dawned  and  darkened, 
Many  a night  shook  off  the  daylight 
As  the  pine  shakes  off  the  snow-flakes 
From  the  midnight  of  its  branches  ; 

Day  by  day  the  guests  unmoving 
Sat  there  silent  in  the  wigwam  ; 

But  by  night,  in  storm  or  starlight, 
Forth  they  went  into  the  forest, 
Bringing  fire-wood  to  the  wigwam, 
Bringing  pine-cones  for  the  burning, 
Always  sad  and  always  silent. 

And  whenever  Hiawatha 
Came  from  fishing  or  from  hunting, 
When  the  evening  meal  was  ready, 

And  the  food  had  been  divided, 

Gliding  from  their  darksome  corner, 
Came  the  pallid  guests,  the  strangers, 
Seized  upon  the  choicest  portions 
Set  aside  for  Laughing  Water, 

And  without  rebuke  or  question 
Flitted  back  among  the  shadows. 

Never  once  had  Hiawatha 
By  a word  or  look  reproved  them  ; 
Never  once  had  old  Nokomis 
Made  a gesture  of  impatience  ; 


Never  once  had  Laughing  Water 
Shown  resentment  at  the  outrage. 

All  had  they  endured  in  silence, 

That  the  rights  of  guest  and  stranger, 
That  the  virtue  of  free-giving, 

By  a look  might  not  be  lessened, 

By  a word  might  not  be  broken. 

Once  at  midnight  Hiawatha, 

Ever  wakeful,  ever  watchful, 

In  the  wigwam,  dimly  lighted 
By  the  brands  that  still  were  burning, 
By  the  glimmering,  flickering  fire-light, 
Heard  a sighing,  oft  repeated, 

Heard  a sobbing,  as  of  sorrow. 

From  his  couch  rose  Hiawatha, 

From  his  shaggy  hides  of  bison, 

Pushed  aside  the  deer-skin  curtain, 

Saw  the  pallid  guests,  the  shadows, 
Sitting  upright  on  their  couches, 
Weeping  in  the  silent  midnight. 

And  he  said  : “ 0 guests  ! why  is  it 
That  your  hearts  are  so  afflicted, 

That  you  sob  so  in  the  midnight  ? 

Has  perchance  the  old  Nokomis, 

Has  my  wife,  my  Minnehaha, 

Wronged  or  grieved  you  by  unkindness, 
Failed  in  hospitable  duties  ?” 

Then  the  shadows  ceased  from  weeping, 
Ceased  from  sobbing  and  lamenting, 
And  they  said,  with  gentle  voices  : 

“We  are  ghosts  of  the  departed, 

Souls  of  those  who  once  were  with 
you. 

From  the  realms  of  Chibiabos 
Hither  have  we  come  to  try  you, 

Hither  have  we  come  to  warn  you. 

4 4 Cries  of  grief  and  lamentation 
Beach  us  in  the  Blessed  Islands ; 

Cries  of  anguish  from  the  living, 

Calling  back  their  friends  departed, 
Sadden  us  with  useless  sorrow. 

Therefore  have  we  come  to  try  you  ; 

No  one  knows  us,  no  one  heeds  us. 

We  are  but  a burden  to  you, 

And  we  see  that  the  departed 
Have  no  place  among  the  living. 

“Think  of  this,  0 Hiawatha  ! 

Speak  of  it  to  all  the  people, 

That  henceforward  and  forever 
They  no  more  with  lamentations 
Sadden  the  souls  of  the  departed 
In  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 

4 4 Do  not  lay  such  heavy  burdens 
In  the  graves  of  those  you  bury, 

Not  such  weight  of  furs  and  wampum, 
Not  such  weight  of  pots  and  kettles, 

For  the  spirits  faint  beneath  them. 


THE  FAMINE. 


185 


Only  give  them  food  to  carry, 

Only  give  them  fire  to  light  them. 

“ Four  days  is  the  spirit’s  journey 
To  the  land  of  ghosts  and  shadows, 
Four  its  lonely  night  encampments  ; 
Four  times  must  their  fires  be  lighted. 
Therefore,  when  the  dead  are  buried, 
Let  a fire,  as  night  approaches, 

Four  times  on  the  grave  be  kindled, 
That  the  soul  upon  its  journey 
May  not  lack  the  cheerful  fire-light, 
May  not  grope  about  in  darkness. 

“ Farewell,  noble  Hiawatha  J 
We  have  put  you  to  the  trial, 

To  the  proof  have  put  your  patience, 

By  the  insult  of  our  presence, 

By  the  outrage  of  our  actions. 

We  have  found  you  great  and  noble. 
Fail  not  in  the  greater  trial, 

Faint  not  in  the  harder  struggle.” 

When  they  ceased,  a sudden  darkness 
Fell  and  filled  the  silent  wigwam. 
Hiawatha  heard  a rustle 
As  of  garments  trailing  by  him, 

Heard  the  curtain  of  the  doorway 
Lifted  by  a hand  he  saw  not, 

Felt  the  cold  breath  of  the  night  air, 

For  a moment  saw  the  starlight ; 

But  he  saw  the  ghosts  no  longer, 

Saw  no  more  the  wandering  spirits 
From  the  kingdom  of  Ponemah, 

From  the  land  of  the  Hereafter. 

XX. 

THE  FAMINE. 

O the  long  and  dreary  Winter  ! 

O the  cold  and  cruel  Winter  ! 

Ever  thicker,  thicker,  thicker 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river, 

Ever  deeper,  deeper,  deeper 

Fell  the  snow  o’er  all  the  landscape, 

Fell  the  covering  snow,  and  drifted 
Through  the  forest,  round  the  village. 

Hardly  from  his  buried  wigwam 
Could  the  hunter  force  a passage  ; 

With  his  mittens  and  his  snow-shoes 
Vainly  walked  he  through  the  forest, 
Sought  for  bird  or  beast  and  found  none, 
Saw  no  track  of  deer  or  rabbit, 

In  the  snow  beheld  no  footprints, 

In  the  ghastly,  gleaming  forest 
Fell,  and  could  not  rise  from  weakness, 
Perished  there  from  cold  and  hunger. 

0 the  famine  and  the  fever  ! 

0 the  wasting  of  the  famine  ! 


O the  blasting  of  the  fever  ! 

O the  wailing  of  the  children  ! 

0 the  anguish  of  the  women  ! 

All  the  earth  was  sick  and  famished  ; 
Hungry  was  the  air  around  them, 
Hungry  was  the  sky  above  them, 

And  the  hungry  stars  in  heaven 
Like  the  eyes  of  wolves  glared  at  them  J 
Into  Hiawatha’s  wigwam 
Came  two  other  guests,  as  silent 
As  the  ghosts  were,  and  as  gloomy, 
Waited  not  to  be  invited, 

Did  not  parley  at  the  doorway, 

Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome 
In  the  seat  of  Laughing  Water  ; 

Looked  with  haggard  eyes  and  hollow 
At  the  face  of  Laughing  Water. 

And  the  foremost  said  : “ Behold  me  '1 

1 am  Famine,  Bukadawin  I ” 

And  the  other  said  : ‘ ( Behold  me  ! 

I am  Fever,  Ahkosewin  ! ” 

And  the  lovely  Minnehaha 
Shuddered  as  they  looked  upon  her, 
Shuddered  at  the  words  they  uttered, 
Lay  down  on  her  bed  in  silence, 

Hid  her  face,  but  made  no  answer  ; 

Lay  there  trembling,  freezing,  burning 
At  the  looks  they  cast  upon  her, 

At  the  fearful  words  they  uttered. 

Forth  into  the  empty  forest 
Bushed  the  maddened  Hiawatha  ; 

In  his  heart  was  deadly  sorrow, 

In  his  face  a stony  firmness  ; 

On  his  brow  the  sweat  of  anguish 
Started,  but  it  froze  and  fell  not. 

Wrapped  in  furs  and  armed  for  hunt 
ing, 

With  his  mighty  bow  of  ash-tree, 

With  his  quiver  full  of  arrows, 

With  his  mittens,  Minjekahwun, 

Into  the  vast  and  vacant  forest 
On  his  snow-shoes  strode  he  forward. 

“ Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty  ! ” 

Cried  he  with  his  face  uplifted 
In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 

“ Give  your  children  food,  0 father  ! 
Give  us  food,  or  we  must  perish  ! 

Give  me  food  for  Minnehaha, 

For  my  dying  Minnehaha  ! ” 

Through  the  far-resounding  forest, 
Through  the  forest  vast  and  vacant 
Bang  that  cry  of  desolation, 

But  there  came  no  other  answer 
Than  the  echo  of  his  crying, 

Than  the  echo  of  the  woodlands, 

“ Minnehaha  ! Minnehaha  ! ” 

All  day  long  roved  Hiawatha 


186 


THE  SONG  OE  HIAWATHA. 


In  that  melancholy  forest, 

Through  the  shadow  of  whose  thickets, 

In  the  pleasant  days  of  Summer, 

Of  that  ne’er  forgotten  Summer, 

He  had  brought  his  young  wife  homeward  | 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotalis  ; 

When  the  birds  sang  in  the  thickets, 
Andthe  streamlets  laughed  and  glistened, 
And  the  air  was  full  of  fragrance, 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Said  with  voice  that  did  not  tremble, 

“I  will  follow  you,  my  husband  ! ” 

In  the  wigwam  with  Nokomis, 

W ith  those  gloomy  guests,  that  watched 
her, 

With  the  Famine  and  the  Fever, 

She  was  lying,  the  Beloved, 

She  the  dying  Minnehaha. 

“ Hark  ! ” she  said  ; “1  heararushing, 
Hear  a roaring  and  a rushing, 

Hear  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  me  from  a distance  ! ” 

“No,  my  child  ! ” said  old  Nokomis, 

“ ’T  is  the  night- wind  in  the  pine-trees  ! ” 

“ Look  ! ” she  said  ; “I  see  my  father 
Standing  lonely  at  his  doorway, 
Beckoning  to  me  from  his  wigwam 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotalis  ! ” 

“No,  my  child  ! ” said  old  Nokomis, 

“ ’T  is  the  smoke,  that  waves  and  beck- 
ons ! ” 

“ Ah  ! ” said  she,  “the  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  me  in  the  darkness, 

I can  feel  his  icy  lingers 
Clasping  mine  amid  the  darkness  ! 
Hiawatha  ! Hiawatha  ! ” 

And  the  desolate  Hiawatha. 

Far  away  amid  the  forest, 

Miles  away  among  the  mountains. 

Heard  that  sudden  cry  of  anguish, 

Heard  the  voice  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  in  the  darkness, 

“ Hiawatha  ! Hiawatha  ! ” 

Over  snow-fields  waste  and  pathless, 
Under  snow-encumbered  branches, 
Homeward  hurried  Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed,  heavy-hearted. 

Heard  Nokomis  moaning,  wailing  : 

“ Wahonowin  ! Wahonowin  ! 

Would  that  I had  perished  for  you, 
Would  that  I were  dead  as  you  are  ! \ 

Wahonowin  ! Wahonowin  !” 

And  he  rushed  into  the  wigwam, 

Saw  the  old  Nokomis  slowly 
Rocking  to  and  fro  and  moaning, 

Saw  his  lovely  Minnehaha 
Lying  dead  and  cold  before  him, 


And  his  bursting  heart  within  him 
Uttered  such  a cry  of  anguish, 

That  the  forest  moaned  and  shuddered, 
That  the  very  stars  in  heaven 
Shook  and  trembled  with  his  anguish. 

Then  he  sat  down,  still  and  speechless, 
On  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water, 

At  those  willing  feet,  that  never 
More  would  lightly  run  to  meet  him, 
Never  more  would  lightly  follow. 

With  both  hands  his  face  he  covered. 
Seven  long  days  and  nights  he  sat  there, 
As  if  in  a swoon  lie  sat  there, 

Speechless,  motionless,  unconscious 
Of  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 

Then  they  buried  Minnehaha  ; 

In  the  snow  a grave  they  made  her, 

In  the  forest  deep  and  darksome, 
Underneath  the  moaning  hemlocks  ; 
Clothed  her  in  her  richest  garments, 
Wrapped  her  in  her  robes  of  ermine ; 
Covered  her  with  snow,  like  ermine. 
Thus  they  buried  Minnehaha. 

And  at  night  a fire  was  lighted, 

On  her  grave  four  times  was  kindled. 
For  her  soul  upon  its  journey 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 

From  his  doorway  Hiawatha 
Saw  it  burning  in  the  forest, 

Lighting  up  the  gloomy  hemlocks  ; 
From  his  sleepless  bed  uprising, 

From  the  bed  of  Minnehaha, 

Stood  and  watched  it  at  the  doorway, 
That  it  might  not  be  extinguished, 
Might  not  leave  her  in  the  darkness. 

“ Farewell  ! ” said  he,  “ Minnehaha  ! 
Farewell,  0 my  Laughing  Water  ! 

All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you, 

All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you  ! 
Come  not  back  again  to  labor, 

Come  not  back  again  to  suffer, 

Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 
Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body. 
Soon  my  task  will  be  completed, 

Soon  your  footsteps  I shall  follow 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 

To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 

To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter  ! ” 

XXL 

THE  WHITE  MAN’S  FOOT. 

In  his  lodge  beside  a river, 

Close  beside  a frozen  river, 

Sat  an  old  man,  sad  and  lonely. 


THE  WHITE  MAN’S  FOOT. 


187 


White  his  hair  was  as  a snow-drift  ; 
Dull  and  low  his  fire  was  burning, 

And  the  old  man  shook  and  trembled, 
Folded  in  his  Waubewyon, 

In  his  tattered  white-skin-wrapper, 
Hearing  nothing  but  the  tempest 
As  it  roared  along  the  forest, 

Seeing  nothing  but  the  snow-storm, 

As  it  whirled  and  hissed  and  drifted. 

All  the  coals  were  white  with  ashes, 
And  the  fire  was  slowly  dying, 

As  a young  man,  walking  lightly, 

At  the  open  doorway  entered. 

Red  with  blood  of  youth  his  cheeks  were, 
Soft  his  eyes,  as  stars  in  Spring-time, 
Bound  his  forehead  was  with  grasses, 
Bound  and  plumed  with  scented  grasses  ; 
On  his  lips  a smile  of  beauty, 

Filling  all  the  lodge  with  sunshine, 

In  his  hand  a bunch  of  blossoms 
Filling  all  the  lodge  with  sweetness. 

“ Ah,  my  son  ! ” exclaimed  the  old  man, 
xt  Happy  are  my  eyes  to  see  you. 

Sit  here  on  the  mat  beside  me, 

Sit  here  by  the  dying  embers, 

Let  us  pass  the  night  together. 

Tell  me  of  your  strange  adventures, 

Of  the  lands  where  you  have  travelled  ; 

I will  tell  you  of  my  prowess, 

Of  my  many  deeds  of  wonder.” 

From  his  pouch  he  drew  his  peace-pipe, 
Very  old  and  strangely  fashioned  ; 

Made  of  red  stone  was  the  pipe-head, 
And  the  stem  a reed  with  feathers ; 
Filled  the  pipe  with  bark  of  willow, 
Placed  a burning  coal  upon  it, 

Gave  it  to  his  guest,  the  stranger, 

And  began  to  speak  in  this  wise  : 

‘ ‘ When  I blow  my  breath  about  me, 
When  I breathe  upon  the  landscape, 
Motionless  are  all  the  rivers, 

Hard  as  stone  becomes  the  water  ! ” 

And  the  young  man  answered,  smiling : 
“ When  I blow  my  breath  about  me, 
When  I breathe  upon  the  landscape, 
Flowers  spring  up  o’er  all  the  meadows, 
Singing,  onward  rush  the  rivers  ! ” 

“ When  I shake  my  hoary  tresses,” 
Said  the  old  man  darkly  frowning, 

“ All  the  land'with  snow  is  covered  ; 

All  the  leaves  from  all  the  branches 
Fall  and  fade  and  die  and  wither, 

For  I breathe,  and  lo  ! they  are  not. 
From  the  waters  and  the  marshes 
Rise  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron, 

Fly  away  to  distant  regions, 

For  I speak,  and  lo  ! they  are  not. 


And  where’er  my  footsteps  wander, 

All  the  wild  beasts  of  the  forest 
Hide  themselves  in  holes  and  caverns, 
And  the  earth  becomes  as  Hintstone  ! ” 

“ When  I shake  my  flowing  ringlets,” 
Said  the  young  man,  softly  laughing, 

“ Showers  of  rain  fall  warm  and  welcome, 
Plants  lift  up  their  heads  rejoicing, 

Back  unto  their  lakes  and  marshes 
Come  the  wild  goose  and  the  heron, 
Homeward  shoots  the  arrowy  swallow, 
Sing  the  bluebird  and  the  robin, 

And  where’er  my  footsteps  wander, 

All  the  meadows  wave  with  blossoms, 
All  the  woodlands  ring  with  music, 

All  the  trees  are  dark  with  foliage  ! ” 
While  they  spake,  the  night  departed : 
From  the  distant  realms  of  Wabun, 
From  his  shining  lodge  of  silver, 

Like  a warrior  robed  and  painted, 

Came  the  sun,  and  said,  “ Behold  me  ! 
Gheezis,  the  great  sun,  behold  me  ! ” 
Then  the  old  man’s  tongue  was  speech- 
less 

And  the  air  grew  warm  and  pleasant, 
And  upon  the  wigwam  sweetly 
Sang  the  bluebird  and  the  robin, 

And  the  stream  began  to  murmur, 

And  a scent  of  growing  grasses 
Through  the  lodge  was  gently  wafted. 

And  Segwun,  the  youthful  stranger, 
More  distinctly  in  the  daylight 
Saw  the  i6y  face  before  him  ; 

It  was  Peboan,  the  Winter  ! 

From  his  eyes  the  tears  were  flowing, 
As  from  melting  lakes  the  streamlets, 
And  his  body  shrunk  and  dwindled 
As  the  shouting  sun  ascended, 

Till  into  the  air  it  faded, 

Till  into  the  ground  it  vanished, 

And  the  young  man  saw  before  him, 

On  the  hearth -stone  of  the  wigwam, 
Where  the  fire  had  smoked  and  smoul- 
dered, 

Saw  the  earliest  flower  of  Spring-time, 
Saw  the  Beauty  of  the  Spring-time, 

Saw  the  Miskodeed  in  blossom. 

Thus  it  was  that  in  the  North-land 
After  that  unheard-of  coldness, 

That  intolerable  Winter, 

Came  the  Spring  with  all  its  splendor, 
All  its  birds  and  all  its  blossoms, 

All  its  flowers  and  leaves  and  grasses. 

Sailing  on  the  wind  to  northward, 
Flying  in  great  flocks,  like  arrows, 

Like  huge  arrows  shot  through  heaven, 
Passed  the  swan,  the  Mahnahbezee, 


188 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA. 


Speaking  almost  as  a man  speaks  ; 

And  in  long  lines  waving,  bending 
Like  a bow-string  snapped  asunder, 
Came  the  white  goose,  Waw-be-wawa  ; 
And  in  pairs,  or  singly  flying, 

Mahng  the  loon,  with  clangorous  pinions, 
The  blue  heron,  the  Shull -sliuh-gah, 
And  the  grouse,  the  Mushkodasa. 

In  the  thickets  and  the  meadows 
Piped  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 

On  the  summit  of  the  lodges 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 

In  the  covert  of  the  pine-trees 
Cooed  the  pigeon,  the  Omemee, 

And  the  sorrowing  Hiawatha, 

Speechless  in  his  infinite  sorrow, 

Heard  their  voices  calling  to  him, 

Went  forth  from  his  gloomy  doorway, 
Stood  and  gazed  into  the  heaven, 

Gazed  upon  the  earth  and  waters. 

F rom  his  wanderings  far  to  eastward, 
From  the  regions  of  the  morning, 

From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun, 
Homeward  now  returned  Iagoo, 

The  great  traveller,  the  great  boaster, 
Full  of  new  and  strange  adventures, 
Marvels  many  and  many  wonders. 

And  the  people  of  the  village 
Listened  to  him  as  he  told  them 
Of  his  marvellous  adventures, 

Laughing  answered  him  in  this  wise  : 

“ Ugh  ! it  is  indeed  lagoo  ! 

No  one  else  beholds  such  wonders  ! ” 

He  had  seen,  he  said,  a water 
Bigger  than  the  Big-Sea- Water, 

Broader  than  the  Gitche  Gurnee, 

Bitter  so  that  none  could  drink  it ! 

At  each  other  looked  the  warriors, 
Looked  the  women  at  each  other, 

Smiled,  and  said,  “It  cannot  be  so  ! 
Kaw  ! ” they  said,  “it  cannot  be  so  ! ” 

O’er  it,  said  he,  o’er  this  water 
Came  a great  canoe  with  pinions, 

A canoe  with  wings  came  flying, 

Bigger  than  a grove  of  pine-trees, 

Taller  than  the  tallest  tree-tops  ! 

And  the  old  men  and  the  women 
Looked  and  tittered  at  each  other  ; 
“Kaw  !”  they  said,  “we  don’t  believe 
it ! ” 

From  its  mouth,  he  said,  to  greet  him, 
Came  Waywassimo,  the  lightning, 

Came  the  thunder,  Annemeekee  ! 

And  the  warriors  and  the  women 
Laughed  aloud  at  poor  Iagoo  ; 

“ Kaw  ! ” they  said,  “ what  tales  you 
tell  us  ! ” 


In  it,  said  he,  came  a people, 

In  the  great  canoe  with  pinions 
Came,  he  said,  a hundred  warriors ; 
Painted  white  were  all  their  faces 
And  with  hair  their  chins  were  covered  ! 
And  the  warriors  and  the  women 
Laughed  and  shouted  in  derision. 

Like  the  ravens  on  the  tree-tops, 

Like  the  crows  upon  the  hemlocks. 

“ Kaw  ! ” they  said,  “ what  lies  you  tell 
us  ! 

Ho  not  think  that  we  believe  them  ! ” 
Only  Hiawatha  laughed  not, 

But  he  gravely  spake  and  answered 
To  their  jeering  and  their  jesting  : 

“ True  is  all  Iagoo  tells  us  ; 

I have  seen  it  in  a vision, 

Seen  the  great  canoe  with  pinions, 

Seen  the  people  with  white  faces, 

Seen  the  coming  of  this  bearded 
People  of  the  wooden  vessel 
From  the  regions  of  the  morning, 

From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun. 

“Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 

The  Great  Spirit,  the  Creator, 

Sends  them  hither  on  his  errand, 

Sends  them  to  us  with  his  message. 
Wheresoe’er  they  move,  before  them 
Swarms  the  stinging  fly,  the  Ahmo. 
Swarms  the  bee,  the  honey-maker  ; 
Wheresoe’er  they  tread,  beneath  them 
Springs  a flower  unknown  among  us, 
Springs  the  White-man’s  Foot  in  blossom. 

“ Let  us  welcome,  then,  the  strangers, 
Hail  them  as  our  friends  and  brothers, 
And  the  heart’s  right  hand  of  friendship 
Give  them  when  they  come  to  see  us. 
Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty, 

Said  this  to  me  in  my  vision. 

“ I beheld,  too,  in  that  vision 
All  the  secrets  of  the  future, 

Of  the  distant  days  that  shall  be. 

1 beheld  the  westward  marches 
Of  the  unknown,  crowded  nations. 

All  the  land  was  full  of  people, 

Pestless,  struggling,  toiling,  striving, 
Speaking  many  tongues,  yet  feeling 
But  one  heart-beat  in  their  bosoms. 

In  the  woodlands  rang  their  axes, 
Smoked  their  towns  in  all  the  valleys, 
Over  all  the  lakes  and  rivers 
Rushed  their  great  canoes  of  thunder. 

“ Then  a darker,  drearier  vision 
Passed  before  me,  vague  and  cloud-like  • 

I beheld  our  nation  scattered, 

All  forgetful  of  my  counsels. 

Weakened,  warring  with  each  other  ; 


HIAWATHA’S  DEPARTURE. 


189 


Saw  the  remnants  of  our  people 
Sweeping  westward,  wild  and  woful, 
Like  the  cloud-rack  of  a tempest, 
Like  the  withered  leaves  of  Autumn  ! 


XXII. 

HIAWATHA’S  DEPARTURE. 

By  the  shore  of  Gitclie  Gurnee, 

By  the  shining  Big-Sea- Water, 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 

In  the  pleasant  Summer  morning, 
Hiawatha  stood  and  waited. 

All  the  air  was  lull  of  freshness, 

All  the  earth  was  bright  and  joyous, 

And  before  him,  through  the  sunshine, 
Westward  toward  the  neighboring  forest 
Passed  in  golden  swarms  the  Ahmo, 
Passed  the  bees,  the  honey-makers, 
Burning,  singing  in  the  sunshine. 

Bright  above  him  shone  the  heavens, 
Level  spread  the  lake  before  him  ; 

From  its  bosom  leaped  the  sturgeon, 
Sparkling,  flashing  in  the  sunshine  ; 

On  its  margin  the  great  forest 
Stood  reflected  in  the  water, 

Every  tree-top  had  its  shadow, 
Motionless  beneath  the  water. 

From  the  brow  of  Hiawatha 
Gone  was  every  trace  of  sorrow, 

As  the  fog  from  off  the  water, 

As  the  mist  from  off  the  meadow. 

With  a smile  of  joy  and  triumph, 

With  a look  of  exultation, 

As  of  one  who  in  a vision 
Sees  what  is  to  be,  but  is  not, 

Stood  and  waited  Hiawatha. 

Toward  the  sun  his  hands  were  lifted, 
Both  the  palms  spread  out  against  it, 
And  between  the  parted  fingers 
Fell  the  sunshine  on  his  features, 
Flecked  with  light  his  naked  shoulders, 
As  it  falls  and  flecks  an  oak-tree 
Through  the  rifted  leaves  and  branches. 

O’er  the  water  floating,  flying, 
Something  in  the  hazy  distance, 
Something  in  the  mists  of  morning, 
Loomed  and  lifted  from  the  water, 

Now  seemed  floating,  now  seemed  fly- 
ing, 

Coming  nearer,  nearer,  nearer. 

Was  it  Shingebis  the  diver  ? 

Or  the  pelican,  the  Shada  ? 

Or  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gali  ? 

Or  the  white  goose,  Waw-be-wawa, 


With  the  water  dripping,  flashing, 

From  its  glossy  neck  and  feathers  ? 

It  was  neither  goose  nor  diver, 
Neither  pelican  nor  heron, 

O’er  the  water  floating,  flying, 

Through  the  shining  mist  of  morning, 
But  a birch  canoe  with  paddles, 

Rising,  sinking  on  the  water, 

Dripping,  flashing  in  the  sunshine  ; 

And  within  it  came  a people 
From  the  distant  land  of  Wabun, 

From  the  farthest  realms  of  morning 
Came  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Prophet, 
He  the  Priest  of  Prayer,  the  Pale-face, 
With  his  guides  and  his  companions. 

And  the  noble  Hiawatha, 

With  his  hands  aloft  extended, 

Held  aloft  in  sign  of  welcome, 

Waited,  full  of  exultation, 

Till  the  birch  canoe  with  paddles 
Grated  on  the  shining  pebbles, 

Stranded  on  the  sandy  margin, 

Till  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Pale-face, 
With  the  cross  upon  his  bosom, 

Landed  on  the  sandy  margin. 

Then  the  joyous  Hiawatha 
Cried  aloud  and  spake  in  this  wise  : 

“ Beautiful  is  the  sun,  0 strangers, 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! 

All  our  town  in  peace  awaits  you, 

All  our  doors  stand  open  for  you  ; 

You  shall  enter  all  our  wigwams, 

For  the  heart’s  right  hand  we  give  you. 

“Never  bloomed  the  earth  so  gayly, 
Never  shone  the  sun  so  brightly, 

As  to-day  they  shine  and  blossom 
When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! 

Never  was  our  lake  so  tranquil, 

Nor  so  free  from  rocks  and  sand-bars  ; 
For  your  birch  canoe  in  passing 
Has  removed  both  rock  and  sand-bar. 

“ Never  before  had  our  tobacco 
Such  a sweet  and  pleasant  flavor, 

Never  the  broad  leaves  of  our  cornfields 
Were  so  beautiful  to  look  on, 

As  they  seem  to  us  this  morning, 

When  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! ” 

And  the  Black -Robe  chief  made  an 
swer, 

Stammered  in  his  speech  a little, 
Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar  : 

“ Peace  be  with  you,  Hiawatha, 

Peace  be  with  you  and  your  people, 
Peace  of  prayer,  and  peace  of  pardon, 
Peace  of  Christ,  and  joy  of  Mary  ! ” 

Then  the  generous  Hiawatha 
I Led  the  strangers  to  his  wigwam, 


190 


THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA, 


Seated  them  on  skins  of  bison, 

Seated  them  on  skins  of  ermine, 

And  the  careful,  old  Nokomis 
Brought  them  food  in  bowls  of  bass- 
wood, 

Water  brought  in  birchen  dippers, 

And  the  calumet,  the  peace-pipe, 

Filled  and  lighted  for  their  smoking 
All  the  old  men  of  the  village, 

All  the  warriors  of  the  nation, 

All  the  Jossakeeds,  the  prophets. 

The  magicians,  the  Wabenos, 

And  the  medicine-men,  the  Medas, 

Came  to  bid  the  strangers  welcome  ; 

4 4 It  is  well,”  they  said,  44  O brothers, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! ” 

In  a circle  round  the  doorway, 

With  their  pipes  they  sat  in  silence, 
Waiting  to  behold  the  strangers, 
Waiting  to  receive  their  message  ; 

Till  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the  Pale-face, 
From  the  wigwam  came  to  greet  them, 
Stammering  in  his  speech  a little, 
Speaking  words  yet  unfamiliar  ; 

44  It  is  well,”  they  said,  44  0 brother, 
That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! ” 

Then  the  Black-Robe  chief,  the 
prophet, 

Told  his  message  to  the  people. 

Told  the  purport  of  his  mission. 

Told  them  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 

And  her  blessed  Son,  the  Saviour, 

How  in  distant  lands  and  ages 
He  had  lived  on  earth  as  we  do  ; 

How  he  fasted,  prayed,  and  labored  ; 
How  the  Jews,  the  tribe  accursed, 
Mocked  him,  scourged  him,  crucified 
him  ; 

How  he  rose  from  where  they  laid  him, 
Walked  again  with  his  disciples, 

And  ascended  into  heaven. 

And  the  chiefs  made  answer,  saying  : 
44  We  have  listened  to  your  message, 

We  have  heard  your  words  of  wisdom, 
We  will  think  on  what  you  tell  us. 

It  is  well  for  us,  0 brothers, 

That  you  come  so  far  to  see  us  ! ” 

Then  they  rose  up  and  departed 
Each  one  homeward  to  his  wigwam, 

To  the  young  men  and  the  women 
Told  the  story  of  the  strangers 
Whom  the  Master  of  Life  had  sent  them 
From  the  shining  land  of  Wabun. 

Heavy  with  the  heat  and  silence 
Grew  the  afternoon  of  Summer  ; 

With  adrowsy  sound  the  forest 
Whispered  round  the  sultry  wigwam, 


With  a. sound  of  sleep  the  water 
Rippled  on  the  beach  below  it ; 

From  the  cornfields  shrill  and  ceaseless 
Sang  the  grasshopper,  Pah-puk-keena  ; 
And  the  guests  of  Hiawatha, 

Weary  with  the  heat  of  Summer, 
Slumbered  in  the  sultry  wigwam. 

Slowly  o’er  the  simmering  landscape 
Fell  the  evening’s  dusk  and  coolness, 
And  the  long  and  level  sunbeams 
Shot  their  spears  into  the  forest, 
Breaking  through  its  shields  of  shadow, 
Rushed  into  each  secret  ambush, 
Searched  each  thicket,  dingle,  hollow  ; 
Still  the  guests  of  Hiawatha 
Slumbered  in  the  silent  wigwam. 

From  his  place  rose  Hiawatha, 

Bade  farewell  to  old  Nokomis, 

Spake  in  whispers,  spake  in  this  wise, 
Did  not  wake  the  guests,  that  slumbered : 
44 1 am  going,  0 Nokomis, 

On  a long  and  distant  journey, 

To  the  portals  of  the  Sunset, 

To  the  regions  of  the  home -wind, 

Of  the  Northwest  wind,  Keewaydin. 

But  these  guests  I leave  behind  me, 

In  your  watch  and  ward  1 leave  them  ; 
See  that  never  harm  comes  near  them. 
See  that  never  fear  molests  them, 

Never  danger  nor  suspicion, 

Never  want  of  food  or  shelter, 

In  the  lodge  of  Hiawatha  ! ” 

Forth  into  the  village  went  he, 

Bade  farewell  to  all  the  warriors, 

Bade  farewell  to  all  the  young  men, 
Spake  persuading,  spake  in  this  wise  : 

44  I am  going,  0 my  people, 

On  a long  and  distant  journey  ; 

Many  moons  and  many  winters 

Will  have  come,  and  will  have  vanished. 

Ere  I come  again  to  see  you. 

But  my  guests  I leave  behind  me  ; 
Listen  to  their  words  of  wisdom, 

Listen  to  the  truth  they  tell  you, 

For  the  Master  of  Life  has  sent  them 
From  the  land  of  light  and  morning  ! ” 
On  the  shore  stood  Hiawatha, 

Turned  and  waved  his  hand  at  parting  ; 
On  the  clear  and  luminous  water 
Launched  his  birch  canoe  for  sailing, 
From  the  pebbles  of  the  margin 
Shoved  it  forth  into  the  water  ; 

Whis  ered  to  it,  4 4 Westward!  wes^ 
ward  ! ” 

And  with  speed  it  darted  forward. 

And  the  evening  sun  descending 
Set  the  clouds  on  fire  with  redness. 


MILES  STANDISH. 


191 


Burned  the  broad  sky,  like  a prairie, 
Left  upon  the  level  water 
One  long  track  and  trail  of  splendor, 
Down  whose  stream,  as  down  a river, 
Westward,  westward  Hiawatha 
Sailed  into  the  fiery  sunset, 

Sailed  into  the  purple  vapors, 

Sailed  into  the  dusk  of  evening. 

And  the  people  from  the  margin 
Watched  him  floating,  rising,  sinking, 
Till  the  birch  canoe  seemed  lifted 
High  into  that  sea  of  splendor, 

Till  it  sank  into  the  vapors 
Like  the  new  moon  slowly,  slowly 
Sinking  in  the  purple  distance. 

And  they  said,  “ Farewell  forever  ! ” 
Said,  “ Farewell,  0 Hiawatha  !” 

And  the  forests,  dark  and  lonely^ 


Moved  through  all  their  depths  of  dark- 
ness, 

Sighed,  “Farewell,  0 Hiawatha  !” 

And  the  waves  upon  the  margin 
Rising,  rippling  on  the  pebbles, 

Sobbed,  “Farewell,  0 Hiawatha!” 

And  the  heron,  the  Shuli-shuh-gah, 
From  her  haunts  among  the  fen-lands, 
Screamed,  “ Farewell,  0 Hiawatha  ! ” 
Thus  departed  Hiawatha, 

Hiawatha  the  Beloved, 

In  the  glory  of  the  sunset, 

In  the  purple  mists  of  evening, 

To  the  regions  of  the  home- wind, 

Of  the  Northwest  wind  Keewaydin, 

To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 

To  the  kingdom  of  Ponemali, 

To  the  land  of  the  Hereafter  ! 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 

i. 

MILES  STANDISH. 

In  the  Qld  Colony  days,  in  Plymouth  the  land  of  the  Pilgrims, 

To  and  fro  in  a room  of  his  simple  and  primitive  dwelling, 

Clad  in  doublet  and  hose,  and  boots  of  Cordovan  leather, 

Strode,  with  a martial  air,  Miles  Standish  the  Puritan  Captain. 

Buried  in  thought  he  seemed,  with  his  hands  behind  him,  and  pausing 
Ever  and  anon  to  behold  his  glittering  weapons  of  warfare, 

Hanging  in  shining  array  along  the  walls  of  the  chamber,  — 

Cutlass  and  corselet  of  steel,  and  his  trusty  sword  of  Damascus, 

Curved  at  the  point  and  inscribed  with  its  mystical  Arabic  sentence, 

While  underneath,  in  a corner,  were  fowling-piece,  musket,  and  matchlock. 

Short  of  stature  he  was,  but  strongly  built  and  athletic, 

Broad  in  the  shoulders,  deep-chested,  with  muscles  and  sinews  of  iron ; 

Brown  as  a nut  was  his  face,  but  his  russet  beard  was  already 
Flaked  with  patches  of  snow,  as  hedges  sometimes  in  November. 

Near  him  was  seated  John  Alden,  his  friend,  and  household  companion, 

Writing  with  diligent  speed  at  a table  of  pine  by  the  window  ; 

Fair-haired,  azure-eyed,  with  delicate  Saxon  complexion, 

Having  the  dew  of  his  youth,  and  the  beauty  thereof,  as  the  captives 
Whom  Saint  Gregory  saw,  and  exclaimed,  “Not  Angles,  but  Angels.” 

Youngest  of  all  was  he  of  the  men  who  came  in  the  May  Flower. 

Suddenly  breaking  the  silence,  the  diligent  scribe  interrupting,  . 

Spake,  in  the  pride  of  his  heart,  Miles  Standish  the  Captain  of  Plymouth. 

“ Look  at  these  arms,”  he  said,  “ the  warlike  weapons  that  hang  here 
Burnished  and  bright  and  clean,  as  if  for  parade  or  inspection  ! 

This  is  the  sword  of  Damascus  I fought  with  in  Flanders  ; this  breastplate. 

Well  I remember  the  day  ! once  saved  my  life  in  a skirmish  ; 


192 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STAND1SH. 


Here  in  front  you  can  see  the  very  dint  of  the  bullet 
Fired  point-blank  at  my  heart  by  a Spanish  arcabucero. 

Had  it  not  been  of  sheer  steel,  the  forgotten  bones  of  Miles  Standish 
Would  at  this  moment  be  mould,  in  their  grave  in  the  Flemish  morasses/9 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  but  looked  not  up  from  his  writing  : 

“ Truly  the  breath  of  the  Lord  hath  slackened  the  speed  of  the  bullet ; 

He  in  his  mercy  preserved  you,  to  be  our  shield  and  our  weapon  ! ” 

Still  the  Captain  continued,  unheeding  the  words  of  the  stripling : 

“ See,  how  bright  they  are  burnished,  as  if  in  an  arsenal  hanging ; 

That  is  because  I have  done  it  myself,  and  not  left  it  to  others. 

Serve  yourself,  would  you  be  well  served,  is  an  excellent  adage  ; 

So  I take  care  of  my  arms,  as  you  of  your  pens  and  your  inkhorn. 

Then,  too,  there  are  my  soldiers,  my  great,  invincible  army, 

Twelve  men,  all  equipped,  having  each  his  rest  and  his  matchlock. 
Eighteen  shillings  a month,  together  with  diet  and  pillage, 

And,  like  Caesar,  I know  the  name  of  each  of  my  soldiers  ! ” 

This  he  said  with  a smile,  that  danced  in  his  eyes,  as  the  sunbeams 
Dance  on  the  waves  of  the  sea,  and  vanish  again  in  a moment. 

Alden  laughed  as  he  wrote,  and  still  the  Captain  continued  : 

“ Look  ! you  can  see  from  this  window  my  brazen  howitzer  planted 
High  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  a preacher  wrho  speaks  to  the  purpose, 
Steady,  straightforward,  and  strong,  with  irresistible  logic, 

Orthodox,  flashing  conviction  right  into  the  hearts  of  the  heathen. 

Now  we  are  ready,  I think,  for  any  assault  of  the  Indians  ; 

Let  them  come,  if  they  like,  and  the  sooner  they  try  it  the  better,  — 

Let  them  come  if  they  like,  be  it  sagamore,  sachem,  or  pow-wow, 

Aspinet,  Samoset,  Corbitant,  Squanto,  or  Tokamahamon  ! ” 

Long  at  the  window  he  stood,  and  wistfully  gazed  on  the  landscape, 

W ashed  with  a cold  gray  mist,  the  vapory  breath  of  the  east-wind, 

Forest  and  meadow  and  hill,  and  the  steel-blue  rim  of  the  ocean, 

Lying  silent  and  sad,  in  the  afternoon  shadows  and  sunshine. 

Over  his  countenance  flitted  a shadow  like  those  on  the  landscape, 

Gloom  intermingled  with  light  ; and  his  voice  was  subdued  with  emotion, 
Tenderness,  pity,  regret,  as  after  a pause  he  proceeded  : 

“Yonder  there,  on  the  hill  by  the  sea,  lies  buried  Rose  Standish  ; 

Beautiful  rose  of  love,  that  bloomed  for  me  by  the  wayside  ! 

She  was  the  first  to  die  of  all  who  came  in  the  May  Flower  ! 

Green  above  her  is  growing  the  field  of  wheat  we  have  sown  there, 

Better  to  hide  from  the  Indian  scouts  the  graves  of  our  people, 

Lest  they  should  count  them  and  see  how  many  already  have  perished  ! 99 
Sadly  his  face  he  averted,  and  strode  up  and  down,  and  was  thoughtful. 

Fixed  to  the  opposite  wall  was  a shelf  of  books,  and  among  them 
Prominent  three,  distinguished  alike  for  bulk  and  for  binding  ; 

Bariffe’s  Artillery  Guide,  and  the  Commentaries  of  Caesar 
Out  of  the  Latin  translated  by  Arthur  Goldinge  of  London, 

And,  as  if  guarded  by  these,  between  them  was  standing  the  Bible. 

Musing  a moment  before  them,  Miles  Standish  paused,  as  if  doubtful 
Which  of  the  three  he  should  choose  for  his  consolation  and  comfort, 
Whether  the  wars  of  the  Hebrews,  the  famous  campaigns  of  the  Romans, 

Or  the  Artillery  practice,  designed  for  belligerent  Christians. 

Finally  down  from  its  shelf  he  dragged  the  ponderous  Roman, 

Seated  himself  at  the  window,  and  opened  the  book,  and  in  silence 
Turned  o’er  the  well-worn  leaves,  where  thumb-marks  thick  on  the  margin. 
Like  the  trample  of  feet,  proclaimed  the  battle  "was  hottest, 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying  pen  of  the  stripling, 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


193 


Busily  writing  epistles  important,  to  go  by  the  May  Flower, 
Ready  to  sail  on  the  morrow,  or  next  day  at  latest,  God  willing  ! 
Homeward  hound  with  the  tidings  of  all  that  terrible  winter, 
Letters  written  by  Alden,  and  full  of  the  name  of  Priscilla, 

Full  of  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the  Puritan  maiden  Priscilla  ! 


II. 

LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying  pen  of  the  stripling, 

Or  an  occasional  sigh  from  the  laboring  heart  of  the  Captain, 

Reading  the  marvellous  words  and  achievements  of  Julius  Csesar. 

After  a while  he  exclaimed,  as  he  smote  with  his  hand,  palm  downwards, 
Heavily  on  the  page  : “ A wonderful  man  was  this  Caesar  ! 

You  are  a writer,  and  I am  a lighter,  but  here  is  a fellow 

Who  could  both  write  and  light,  and  in  both  was  equally  skilful  ! ” 

Straightway  answered  and  spake  John  Alden,  the  comely,  the  youthful : 

“ Yes,  he  was  equally  skilled,  as  you  say,  with  his  pen  and  his  weapons. 
Somewhere  have  I read,  but  where  I forget,  he  could  dictate 
Seven  letters  at  once,  at  the  same  time  writing  his  memoirs.” 

“ Truly,”  continued  the  Captain,  not  heeding  or  hearing  the  other, 

“ Truly  a wonderful  man  was  Caius  Julius  Cresar  ! 

Better  be  first,  he  said,  in  a little  Iberian  village. 

Than  be  second  in  Rome,  and  I think  he  was  right  when  he  said  it. 

Twice  was  he  married  before  he  was  twenty,  and  many  times  after  ; 

Battles  live  hundred  he  fought,  and  a thousand  cities  he  conquered  ; 

He,  too,  fought  in  Flanders,  as  he  himself  has  recorded  ; 

Finally  he  was  stabbed  by  his  friend,  the  orator  Brutus  ! 

Now,  do  you  know  what  he  did  on  a certain  occasion  in  Flanders, 

When  the  rear-guard  of  his  army  retreated,  the  front  giving  way  too, 

And  the  immortal  Twelfth  Legion  was  crowded  so  closely  together 
There  was  no  room  for  their  swords  ? Why,  he  seized  a shield  from  a soldier, 
Put  himself  straight  at  the  head  of  his  troops,  and  commanded  the  captains, 
Calling  on  each  by  his  name,  to  order  forward  the  ensigns  ; 

Then  to  widen  the  ranks,  and  give  more  room  for  their  weapons  ; 

So  he  won  the  day,  the  battle  of  something-or-other. 

That ’s  what  1 always  say  ; if  you  wish  a thing  to  be  well  done, 

You  must  do  it  yourself,  you  must  not  leave  it  to  others  ! ” 

All  was  silent  again  ; the  Captain  continued  his  reading. 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying  pen  of  the  stripling 
Writing  epistles  important  to  go  next  day  by  the  May  Flower, 

Filled  with  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the  Puritan  maiden  Priscilla  ; 

Every  sentence  began  or  closed  with  the  name  of  Priscilla, 

Till  the  treacherous  pen,  to  which  he  confided  the  secret, 

Strove  to  betray  it  by  singing  and  shouting  the  name  of  Priscilla  ! 

Finally  closing  his  book,  with  a bang  of  the  ponderous  cover, 

Sudden  and  loud  as  the  sound  of  a soldier  grounding  his  musket, 

Thus  to  the  young  man  spake  Miles  Standish  the  Captain  of  Plymouth  : 

“ When  you  have  finished  your  work,  I have  something  important  to  tell  you. 
Be  not  however  in  haste  ; I can  wait ; I shall  not  be  impatient  ! ” 

Straightway  Alden  replied,  as  he  folded  the  last  of  his  letters, 

Pushing  his  papers  aside,  and  giving  respectful  attention  : 

“ Speak  ; for  whenever  you  speak,  I am  always  ready  to  listen, 


194 


TIIE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


Always  ready  to  hear  whatever  pertains  to  Miles  Standish.” 

Thereupon  answered  the  Captain,  embarrassed,  and  culling  his  phrases  : 

“ ’T  is  not  good  for  a man  to  be  alone,  say  the  Scriptures. 

This  I have  said  before,  and  again  and  again  I repeat  it  ; 

Every  hour  in  the  day,  I think  it,  and  feel  it,  and  say  it. 

Since  Rose  Standish  died,  my  life  has  been  weary  and  dreary  ; 

Sick  at  heart  have  I been,  beyond  the  healing  of  friendship. 

Oft  in  my  lonely  hours  have  I thought  of  the  maiden  Priscilla. 

She  is  alone  in  the  world  ; her  father  and  mother  and  brother 
Died  in  the  winter  together  ; I saw  her  going  and  coming, 

Now  to  the  grave  of  the  dead,  and  now  to  the  bed  of  the  dying, 

Patient,  courageous,  and  strong,  and  said  to  myself,  that  if  ever 
There  were  angels  on  earth,  as  there  are  angels  in  heaven, 

Two  have  I seen  and  known  ; and  the  angel  whose  name  is  Priscilla 
Holds  in  my  desolate  life  the  place  which  the  other  abandoned. 

Long  have  1 cherished  the  thought,  but  never  have  dared  to  reveal  it, 

Being  a coward  in  this,  though  valiant  enough  for  the  most  part. 

Go  to  the  damsel  Priscilla,  the  loveliest  maiden  of  Plymouth, 

Say  that  a blunt  old  Captain,  a man  not  of  words  but  of  actions, 

Offers  his  hand  and  his  heart,  the  hand  and  heart  of  a soldier. 

Not  in  these  words,  you  know,  but  this  in  short  is  my  meaning  ; 

I am  a maker  of  war,  and  not  a maker  of  phrases. 

You,  who  are  bred  as  a scholar,  can  say  it  in  elegant  language, 

Such  as  you  read  in  your  books  of  the  pleadings  and  wooings  of  lovers, 

Such  as  you  think  best  adapted  to  win  the  heart  of  a maiden.” 

When  he  had  spoken,  John  Alden,  the  fair-haired,  taciturn  stripling, 

All  aghast  at  his  words,  surprised,  embarrassed,  bewildered, 

Trying  to  mask  his  dismay  by  treating  the  subject  with  lightness, 

Trying  to  smile,  and  yet  feeling  his  heart  stand  still  in  his  bosom, 

Just  as  a timepiece  stops  in  a house  that  is  stricken  by  lightning, 

Thus  made  answer  and  spake,  or  rather  stammered  than  answered  : 

“Such  a message  as  that,  I am  sure  I should  mangle  and  mar  it ; 

If  you  would  have  it  well  done,  — I am  only  repeating  your  maxim,  — 

You  must  do  it  yourself,  you  must  not  leave  it  to  others  ! ” 

But  with  the  air  of  a man  whom  nothing  can  turn  from  his  purpose. 

Gravely  shaking  his  head,  made  answer  the  Captain  of  Plymouth  : 

“ Truly  the  maxim  is  good,  and  1 do  not  mean  to  gainsay  it ; 

But  we  must  use  it  discreetly,  and  not  waste  powder  for  nothing. 

Now,  as  I said  before,  I was  never  a maker  of  phrases. 

I can  march  up  to  a fortress  and  summon  the  place  to  surrender, 

But  march  up  to  a woman  with  such  a proposal,  I dare  not. 

I ’m  not  afraid  of  bullets,  nor  shot  from  the  mouth  of  a cannon, 

But  of  a thundering  “No  ! ” point-blank  from  the  mouth  of  a woman, 

That  I confess  I ’m  afraid  of,  nor  am  I ashamed  to  confess  it  ! 

So  you  must  grant  my  request,  for  you  are  an  elegant  scholar, 

Having  the  graces  of  speech,  and  skill  in  the  turning  of  phrases.” 

Taking  the  hand  of  his  friend,  who  still  was  reluctant  and  doubtful, 

Holding  it  long  in  his  own,  and  pressing  it  kindly,  he  added  : 

“ Though  I have  spoken  thus  lightly,  yet  deep  is  the  feeling  that  prompts  me  , 
Surely  you  cannot  refuse  what  I ask  in  the  name  of  our  friendship  ! ” 

Then  made  answer  John  Alden  : “ The  name  of  friendship  is  sacred  ; 

What  you  demand  in  that  name,  I have  not  the  power  to  deny  you  ! ” 

So  the  strong  will  prevailed,  subduing  and  moulding  the  gentler, 

Friendship  prevailed  over  love,  and  Alden  went  on  his  errand. 


THE  LOVER’S  ERRAND. 


195 


ill. 

THE  LOVER’S  ERRAND. 

So  the  strong  will  prevailed,  and  Alden  went  on  his  errand, 

Out  of  the  street  of  the  village,  and  into  the  paths  of  the  forest, 

Into  the  tranquil  woods,  where  bluebirds  and  robins  were  building 
Towns  in  the  populous  trees,  with  hanging  gardens  of  verdure, 

Peaceful,  aerial  cities  of  joy  and  affection  and  freedom. 

All  around  him  was  calm,  but  within  him  commotion  and  conflict, 

Love  contending  with  friendship,  and  self  with  each  generous  impulse. 

To  and  fro  in  his  breast  his  thoughts  were  heaving  and  dashing, 

As  in  a foundering  ship,  with  every  roll  of  the  vessel, 

Washes  the  bitter  sea,  the  merciless  surge  of  the  ocean  ! 

“ Must  I relinquish  it  all,”  he  cried  with  a wild  lamentation,  — 

“ Must  I relinquish  it  all,  the  joy,  the  hope,  the  illusion  ? 

Was  it  for  this  I have  loved,  and  waited,  and  worshipped  in  silence  ? 

Was  it  for  this  I have  followed  the  flying  feet  and  the  shadow 
Over  the  wintry  sea,  to  the  desolate  shores  of  New  England  ? 

Truly  the  heart  is  deceitful,  and  out  of  its  depths  of  corruption 
Rise,  like  an  exhalation,  the  misty  phantoms  of  passion  ; 

Angels  of  light  they  seem,  but  are  only  delusions  of  Satan. 

All  is  clear  to  me  now  ; I feel  it,  I see  it  distinctly  ! 

This  is  the  hand  of  the  Lord  ; it  is  laid  upon  me  in  anger, 

For  I have  followed  too  much  the  heart’s  desires  and  devices, 
Worshipping  Astaroth  blindly,  and  impious  idols  of  Baal. 

This  is  the  cross  I must  bear ; the  sin  and  the  swift  retribution.” 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  John  Alden  went  on  his  errand  ; 
Crossing  the  brook  at  the  ford,  where  it  brawled  over  pebble  and  shallow, 
Gathering  still,  as  he  went,  the  May-flowers  blooming  around  him, 
Fragrant,  filling  the  air  with  a strange  and  wonderful  sweetness, 

Children  lost  in  the  woods,  and  covered  with  leaves  in  their  slumber. 

“ Puritan  flowers,”  he  said,  “ and  the  type  of  Puritan  maidens, 

Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  the  very  type  of  Priscilla  ! 

So  I will  take  them  to  her  ; to  Priscilla  the  May-flower  of  Plymouth, 
Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  as  a parting  gift  will  I take  them  ; 
Breathing  their  silent  farewells,  as  they  fade  and  wither  and  perish, 

Soon  to  be  thrown  away  as  is  the  heart  of  the  giver.” 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  John  Alden  went  on  his  errand  ; 

Came  to  an  open  space,  and  saw  the  disk  of  the  ocean. 

Sailless,  sombre  and  cold  with  the  comfortless  breath  of  the  east- wind  ; 
Saw  the  new-built  house,  and  people  at  work  in  a meadow  ; 

Heard,  as  he  drew  near  the  door,  the  musical  voice  of  Priscilla 
Singing  the  hundredth  Psalm,  the  grand  old  Puritan  anthem, 

Music  that  Luther  sang  to  the  sacred  words  of  the  Psalmist, 

Full  of  the  breath  of  the  Lord,  consoling  and  comforting  many. 

Then,  as  he  opened  the  door,  he  beheld  the  form  of  the  maiden 
Seated  beside  her  wheel,  and  the  carded  wool  like  a snow-drift 
Piled  at  her  knee,  her  white  hands  feeding  the  ravenous  spindle, 

While  with  her  foot  on  the  treadle  she  guided  the  wheel  in  its  motion. 
Open  wide  on  her  lap  lay  the  well-worn  psalm-book  of  Ainsworth, 
Printed  in  Amsterdam,  the  words  and  the  music  together, 

Rough-hewn,  angular  notes,  like  stones  in  the  wall  of  a churchyard, 
Darkened  and  overhung  by  the  running  vine  of  the  verses. 

Such  was  the  book  from  whose  pages  she  sang  the  old  Puritan  anthem, 
She,  the  Puritan  girl,  in  the  solitude  of  the  forest, 


196 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


Making  the  humble  house  and  the  modest  apparel  of  home-spun 
Beautiful  with  her  beauty,  and  rich  with  the  wealth  of  her  being  ! 

Over  him  rushed,  like  a wind  that  is  keen  and  cold  and  relentless, . 

Thoughts  of  what  might  have  been,  and  the  weight  and  woe  of  his  errand ; 

All  the  dreams  that  had  faded,  and  all  the  hopes  that  had  vanished, 

All  his  life  henceforth  a dreary  and  tenantless  mansion, 

Haunted  by  vain  regrets,  and  pallid,  sorrowful  faces. 

Still  he  said  to  himself,  and  almost  fiercely  he  said  it, 

“ Let  not  him  that  putteth  his  hand  to  the  plough  look  backwards  ; 

Though  the  ploughshare  cut  through  the  flowers  of  life  to  its  fountains, 

Though  it  pass  o’er  the  graves  of  the  dead  and  the  hearths  of  the  living, 

It  is  the  will  of  the  Lord  ; and  his  mercy  endureth  forever  ! ” 

So  he  entered  the  house  : and  the  hum  of  the  wheel  and  the  singing 
Suddenly  ceased  ; for  Priscilla,  aroused  by  his  step  on  the  threshold, 

Rose  as  lie  entered,  and  gave  him  her  hand,  in  signal  of  welcome, 

Saying,  “ I knew  it  was  you,  when  I heard  your  step  in  the  passage  ; 

For  I was  thinking  of  you,  as  I sat  there  singing  and  spinning.” 

Awkward  and  dumb  with  delight,  that  a thought  of  him  had  been  mingled 
Thus  in  the  sacred  psalm,  that  came  from  the  heart  of  the  maiden, 

Silent  before  her  he  stood,  and  gave  her  the  flowers  for  an  answer, 

Finding  no  words  for  his  thought.  He  remembered  that  day  in  the  winter, 
After  the  first  great  snow,  when  he  broke  a path  from  the  village, 

Reeling  and  plunging  along  through  the  drifts  that  encumbered  the  doorway, 
Stamping  the  snow  from  his  feet  as  he  entered  the  house,  and  Priscilla 
Laughed  at  his  snowy  locks,  and  gave  him  a seat  by  the  fireside, 

Grateful  and  pleased  to  know  he  had  thought  of  her  in  the  snow-storm. 

Had  he  but  spoken  then  ! perhaps  not  in  vain  had  he  spoken  ; 

Now  it  was  all  too  late  ; the  golden  moment  had  vanished  ! 

So  he  stood  there  abashed,  and  gave  her  the  flowers  for  an  answer. 

Then  they  sat  down  and  talked  of  the  birds  and  the  beautiful  Spring-time, 
Talked  of  their  friends  at  home,  and  the  May  Flower  that  sailed  on  the  morrow 
“ I have  been  thinking  all  day,”  said  gently  the  Puritan  maiden, 

“ Dreaming  all  night,  and  thinking  all  da}^,  of  the  hedge-rows  of  England,  — 
They  are  in  blossom  now,  and  the  country  is  all  like  a garden  ; 

Thinking  of  lanes  and  fields,  and  the  song  of  the  lark  and  the  linnet, 

Seeing  the  village  street,  and  familiar  faces  of  neighbors 
Going  about  as  of  old,  and  stopping  to  gossip  together, 

And,  at  the  end  of  the  street,  the  village  church,  with  the  ivy 
Climbing  the  old  gray  tower,  and  the  quiet  graves  in  the  churchyard. 

Kind  are  the  people  i live  with,  and  dear  to  me  my  religion  ; 

Still  my  heart  is  so  sad,  that  I wish  myself  back  in  Old  England. 

You  will  say  it  is  wrong,  but  I cannot  help  it : I almost 

"Wish  myself  back  in  Old  England,  I feel  so  lonely  and  wretched.” 

Thereupon  answered  the  youth  : “ Indeed  I do  not  condemn  you  ; 

Stouter  hearts  than  a woman’s  have  quailed  in  this  terrible  winter. 

Yours  is  tender  and  trusting,  and  needs  a stronger  to  lean  on  ; 

So  I have  come  to  you  now,  with  an  offer  and  proffer  of  marriage 

Made  by  a good  man  and  true,  Miles  Stan  dish  the  Captain  of  Plymouth  ! ” 

Thus  he  delivered  his  message,  the  dexterous  writer  of  letters,  — 

Did  not  embellish  the  theme,  nor  array  it  in  beautiful  phrases, 

But  came  straight  to  the  point,  and  blurted  it  out  like  a school-boy  ; 

Even  the  Captain  himself  could  hardly  have  said  it  more  bluntly. 


TIIE  LOVER’S  ERRAND. 


197 


Mute  with  amazement  and  sorrow,  Priscilla  tlie  Puritan  maiden 
Looked  into  Alden’s  face,  her  eyes  dilated  with  wonder, 

Feeling  his  words  like  a blow,  that  stunned  her  and  rendered  her  speechless  ; 
Till  at° length  she  exclaimed,  interrupting  the  ominous  silence  : 

“ If  the  great  captain  of  Plymouth  is  so  very  eager  to  wed  me, 

Why  does  he  not  come  himself,  and  take  the  trouble  to  woo  me  ? 

If  1 am  not  worth  the  wooing,  I surely  am  not  worth  the  winning  !” 

Then  John  Alden  began  explaining  and  smoothing  the  matter, 

Making  it  worse  as  lie  went,  by  saying  the  Captain  was  busy,  — 

Had  no  time  for  such  things  ; — such  things  ! the  words  grating  harshly 
Fell  on  the  ear  of  Priscilla  ; and  swift  as  a hash  she  made  answer  : 

“ Has  no  time  for  such  things,  as  you  call  it,  before  he  is  married, 

Would  he  be  likely  to  find  it,  or  make  it,  after  the  wedding  ? 

That  is  the  way  with  you  men  ; you  don’t  understand  us,  you  cannot. 

When  you  have  made  up  your  minds,  after  thinking  of  this  one  and  that  one* 
Choosing,  selecting,  rejecting,  comparing  one  with  another, 

Then  you  make  known  your  desire,  with  abrupt  and  sudden  avowal, 

And  are  offended  and  hurt,  and  indignant  perhaps,  that  a woman 
Does  not  respond  at  once  to  a love  that  she  never  suspected, 

Does  not  attain  at  a bound  the  height  to  which  you  have  been  climbing. 

This  is  not  right  nor  just  : for  surely  a woman’s  affection 
Is  not  a thing  to  be  asked  for,  and  had  for  only  the  asking. 

When  one  is  truly  in  love,  one  not  only  says  it,  but  shows  it. 

Had  he  but  waited  awhile,  had  he  only  showed  that  lie  loved  me, 

Even  this  Captain  of  yours  — who  knows  ? — at  last  might  have  won  me, 

Old  and  rough  as  he  is  ; but  now  it  never  can  happen.” 

Still  John  Alden  went  on,  unheeding  the  words  of  Priscilla, 

Urging  the  suit  of  his  friend,  explaining,  persuading,  expanding  ; 

Spoke  of  his  courage  and  skill,  and  of  all  his  battles  in  Flanders, 

How  with  the  people  of  God  he  had  chosen  to  suffer  affliction, 

How,  in  return  for  his  zeal,  they  had  made  him  Captain  of  Plymouth ; 

He  was  a gentleman  born,  could  trace  his  pedigree  plainly 
Back  to  Hugh  Standish  of  Duxbury  Hall,  in  Lancashire,  England, 

Who  was  the  son  of  Ralph,  and  the  grandson  of  Thurston  de  Standish  ; 

Heir  unto  vast  estates,  of  which  he  was  basely  defrauded, 

Still  bore  the  family  arms,  and  had  for  his  crest  a cock  argent 
Combed  and  wattled  gules,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  blazon. 

He  was  a man  of  honor,  of  noble  and  generous  nature  ; 

Though  he  was  rough,  he  was  kindly  ; she  knew  how  during  the  wintei 
He  had  attended  the  sick,  with  a hand  as  gentle  as  woman’s  ; 

Somewhat  hasty  and  hot,  he  could  not  deny  it,  and  headstrong, 

Stern  as  a soldier  might  be,  but  hearty,  and  placable  always, 

Not  to  be  laughed  at  and  scorned,  because  he  was  little  of  stature  ; 

For  he  was  great  of  heart,  magnanimous,  courtly,  courageous  ; 

Any  woman  in  Plymouth,  nay,  any  woman  in  England, 

Might  be  happy  and  proud  to  be  called  the  wife  of  Miles  Standish  ! 

But  as  he  warmed  and  glowed,  in  his  simple  and  eloquent  language. 

Quite  forgetful  of  self,  and  full  of  the  praise  of  his  rival, 

Archly  the  maiden  smiled,  and,  with  eyes  overrunning  with  laughter, 

Said,  in  a tremulous  voice,  “ Why  don’t  you  speak  for  yourself,  Johny** 


198 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


IV. 

JOHN  ALDEN. 

Into  the  open  air  John  Alden,  perplexed  and  bewildered, 

Rushed  like  a man  insane,  and  wandered  alone  by  the  sea-side  ; 

Paced  up  and  down  the  sands,  and  bared  his  head  to  the  east-wind, 

Cooling  his  heated  brow,  and  the  fire  and  fbver  within  him. 

Slowly  as  out  of  the  heavens,  with  apocalyptical  splendors, 

Sank  the  City  of  God,  in  the  vision  of  John  the  Apostle, 

So,  with  its  cloudy  walls  of  chrysolite,  jasper,  and  sapphire, 

Sank  the  broad  red  sun,  and  over  its  turrets  uplifted 
Glimmered  the  golden  reed  of  the  angel  who  measured  the  city. 

“ Welcome,  0 wind  of  the  East  ! ” he  exclaimed  in  his  wild  exultation, 

“ Welcome,  0 wind  of  the  East,  from  the  caves  of  the  misty  Atlantic  ! 
Blowing  o’er  fields  of  dulse,  and  measureless  meadows  of  sea-grass, 

Blowing  o’er  rocky  wastes,  and  the  grottos  and  gardens  of  ocean  ! 

Lay  thy  cold,  moist  hand  on  my  burning  forehead,  and  wrap  me 
Close  in  thy  garments  of  mist,  to  allay  the  fever  within  me  ! ” 

Like  an  awakened  conscience,  the  sea  was  moaning  and  tossing, 

Beating  remorseful  and  loud  the  mutable  sands  of  the  sea-shore. 

Fierce  in  his  soul  was  the  struggle  and  tumult  of  passions  contending ; 

Love  triumphant  and  crowned,  and  friendship  Avounded  and  bleeding, 
Passionate  cries  of  desire,  and  importunate  pleadings  of  duty  ! 

“ Is  it  my  fault,”  he  said,  “that  the  maiden  has  chosen  between  us  ? 

Is  it  my  fault  that  he  failed,  — my  fault  that  I am  the  victor  ? ” 

Then  within  him  there  thundered  a voice,  like  the  voice  of'  the  Prophet : 

“ It  hath  displeased  the  Lord  ! ” — and  he  thought  of  David’s  transgression, 
Bathsheba’s  beautiful  face,  and  his  friend  in  the  front  of  the  battle  ! 

Shame  and  confusion  of  guilt,  and  abasement  and  self-condemnation, 
Overwhelmed  him  at  once  ; and  he  cried  in  the  deepest  contrition  : 

“ It  hath  displeased  the  Lord  ! It  is  the  temptation  of  Satan  ! ” 

Then,  uplifting  his  head,  he  looked  at  the  sea,  and  beheld  there 
Dimly  the  shadowy  form  of  the  May  Flower  riding  at  anchor, 

Rocked  on  the  rising  tide,  and  ready  to  sail  on  the  morrow  ; 

Heard  the  voices  of  men  through  the  mist,  the  rattle  of  cordage 

Thrown  on  the  deck,  the  shouts  of  the  mate,  and  the  sailors’  “Ay,  ay,  Sir  !” 

Clear  and  distinct,  but  not  loud,  in  the  dripping  air  of  the  twilight. 

Still  for  a moment  he  stood,  and  listened,  and  stared  at  the  vessel. 

Then  went  hurriedly  on,  as  one  who,  seeing  a phantom, 

Stops,  then  quickens  his  pace,  and  follows  the  beckoning  shadow. 

“Yes,  it  is  plain  to  me  now,”  he  murmured  ; “ the  hand  of  the  Lord  is 
Leading  me  out  of  the  land  of  darkness,  the  bondage  of  error. 

Through  the  sea,  that  shall  lift  the  walls  of  its  waters  around  me, 

Hiding  me,  cutting  me  off,  from  the  cruel  thoughts  that  pursue  me. 

Back  will  I go  o’er  the  ocean,  this  dreary  land  will  abandon, 

Her  whom  I may  not  love,  and  him  Avhom  my  heart  has  offended. 

Better  to  be  in  my  grave  in  the  green  old  churchyard  in  England, 

Close  by  my  mother’s  side,  and  among  the  dust  of  my  kindred  ; 

Better  be  dead  and  forgotten^  than  living  in  shame  and  dishonor  ! 

Sacred  and  safe  and  unseen,  in  the  dark  of  the  narrow  chamber 

With  me  my  secret  shall  lie,  like  a buried  jewel  that  glimmers 

Bright  on  the  hand  that  is  dust,  in  the  chambers  of  silence  and  darkness,  — 

Yes,  as  the  marriage  ring  of  the  great  espousal  hereafter  ! ” 


JOHN  ALDEN. 


199 


Thus  as  he  spake,  he  turned,  in  the  strength  of  his  strong  resolution, 
Leaving  behind  him  the  shore,  and  hurried  along  in  the  twilight, 

Through  the  congenial  gloom  of  the  forest  silent  and  sombre, 

Till  he  beheld  the  lights  in  the  seven  houses  of  Plymouth, 

Shining  like  seven  stars  in  the  dusk  and  mist  of  the  evening. 

Soon  he  entered  his  door,  and  found  the  redoubtable  Captain 
Sitting  alone,  and  absorbed  in  the  martial  pages  of  Csesar, 

Fighting  some  great  campaign  in  Hainault  or  Brabant  or  Flanders. 

“ Long  have  you  been  on  your  errand,”  he  said  with  a cheery  demeanor, 

Even  as  one  who  is  waiting  an  answer,  and  fears  not  the  issue. 

“ Not  far  off  is  the  house,  although  the  woods  are  between  us  ; 

But  you  have  lingered  so  long,  that  while  you  were  going  and  coming 
I have  fought  ten  battles  and  sacked  and  demolished  a city. 

Come,  sit  down,  and  in  order  relate  to  me  all  that  has  happened.’ 

Then  John  Alden  spake,  and  related  the  wondrous  adventure, 

From  beginning  to  end,  minutely,  just  as  it  happened  ; 

How  he  had  seen  Priscilla,  and  how  he  had  sped  in  his  courtship, 

Only  smoothing  a little,  and  softening  down  her  refusal. 

But  when  he  came  at  length  to  the  words  Priscilla  had  spoken, 

Words  so  tender  and  cruel : 4 4 Why  don’t  you  speak  for  yourself,  John  ? ” 

Up  leaped  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and  stamped  on  the  floor,  till  his  armor 
Clanged  on  the  wall,  where  it  hung,  with  a sound  of  sinister  omen. 

All  his  pent-up  wrath  burst  forth  in  a sudden  explosion, 

E’en  as  a hand-grenade,  that  scatters  destruction  around  it. 

Wildly  he  shouted,  and  loud  : 44  John  Alden  ! you  have  betrayed  me  ! 

Me,  Miles  Standish,  your  friend  ! have  supplanted,  defrauded,  betrayed  me  ! 
One  of  my  ancestors  ran  his  sword  through  the  heart  of  Wat  Tyler  ; 

Who  shall  prevent  me  from  running  my  own  through  the  heart  of  a traitor  ? 
Yours  is  the  greater  treason,  for  yours  is  a treason  to  friendship  ! 

You,  who  lived  under  my  roof,  whom  I cherished  and  loved  as  a brother  ; 
You,  who  have  fed  at  my  board,  and  drunk  at  my  cup,  to  whose  keeping 
I have  intrusted  my  honor,  my  thoughts  the  most  sacred  and  secret,  — 

You  too,  Brutus  ! ah  woe  to  the  name  of  friendship  hereafter  ! 

Brutus  was  Caesar’s  friend,  and  you  were. mine,  but  henceforward 
Let  there  be  nothing  between  us  save  war,  and  implacable  hatred  ! ” 

So  spake  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and  strode  about  in  the  chamber, 
Chafing  and  choking  with  rage  ; like  cords  were  the  veins  on  his  temples. 

But  in  the  midst  of  his  anger  a man  appeared  at  the  doorway, 

Bringing  in  uttermost  haste  a message  of  urgent  importance, 

Rumors  of  danger  and  war  and  hostile  incursions  of  Indians  ! 

Straightway  the  Captain  paused,  and,  without  further  question  or  parley, 
Took  from  the  nail  on  the  wall  his  sword  with  its  scabbard  of  iron, 

Buckled  the  belt  round  his  waist,  and,  frowning  fiercely,  departed. 

Alden  was  left  alone.  He  heard  the  clank  of  the  scabbard 
Growing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  dying  away  in  the  distance. 

Then  he  arose  from  his  seat,  and  looked  forth  into  the  darkness, 

Felt  the  cool  air  blow  on  his  cheek,  that  was  hot  with  the  insult, 

Lifted  his  eyes  to  the  heavens,  and,  folding  his  hands  as  in  childhood, 
Prayed  in  the  silence  of  night  to  the  Father  who  seeth  in  secret. 

Meanwhile  the  choleric  Captain  strode  wrathful  away  to  the  council, 

Found  it  already  assembled,  impatiently  waiting  his  coming  ; 

Men  in  the  middle  of  life,  austere  and  grave  in  deportment, 

Only  one  of  them  old,  the  hill  that  was  nearest  to  heaven, 

Covered  with  snow,  but  erect,  the  excellent  Elder  of  Plymouth. 


200 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


God  had  sifted  three  kingdoms  to  find  the  wheat  for  this  planting, 

Then  had  sifted  the  wheat,  as  the  living  seed  of  a nation  ; 

So  say  the  chronicles  old,  and  such  is'  the  faith  of  the  people  ! 

Near  them  was  standing  an  Indian,  in  attitude  stern  and  defiant, 

Naked  down  to  the  waist,  and  grim  and  ferocious  in  aspect ; 

While  on  the  table  before  them  was  lying  unopened  a Bible, 

Ponderous,  bound  in  leather,  brass-studded,  printed  in  Holland, 

And  beside  it  outstretched  the  skin  of  a rattlesnake  glittered, 

Filled,  like  a quiver,  with  arrows  ; a signal  and  challenge  of  warfare, 
Brought  by  the  Indian,  and  speaking  with  arrowy  tongues  of  defiance. 
This  Miles  Standish  beheld,  as  he  entered,  and  heard  them  debating 
What  were  an  answer  befitting  the  hostile  message  and  menace, 

Talking  of  this  and  of  that,  contriving,  suggesting,  objecting  ; 

One  voice  only  for  peace,  and  that  the  voice  of  the  Elder, 

Judging  it  wise  and  well  that  some  at  least  were  converted, 

Rather  than  any  were  slain,  for  this  was  but  Christian  behavior  ! 

Then  out  spake  Miles  Standish,  the  stalwart  Captain  of  Plymouth, 
Muttering  deep  in  his  throat,  for  his  voice  was  husky  with  anger, 

“What  ! do  you  mean  to  make  war  with  milk  and  the  water  of  roses  ? 

Is  it  to  shoot  red  squirrels  you  have  your  howitzer  planted 
There  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  or  is  it  to  shoot  red  devils  ? 

Truly  the  only  tongue  that  is  understood  by  a savage 

Must  be  the  tongue  of  fire  that  speaks  from  the  mouth  of  the  cannon ! ” 

Thereupon  answered  and  said  the  excellent  Elder  of  Plymouth, 

Somewhat  amazed  and  alarmed  at  this  irreverent  language  : 

4 ‘ Not  so  thought  Saint  Paul,  nor  yet  the  other  Apostles  ; 

Not  from  the  cannon’s  mouth  were  the  tongues  of  fire  they  spake  with  ! ” 
But  unheeded  fell  this  mild  rebuke  on  the  Captain, 

Who  had  advanced  to  the  table,  and  thus  continued  discoursing  : 

“ Leave  this  matter  to  me,  for  to  me  by  right  it  pertaineth. 

War  is  a terrible  trade  ; but  in  the  cause  that  is  righteous, 

Sweet  is  the  smell  of  powder  ; and  thus  I answer  the  challenge  ! ” 

Then  from  the  rattlesnake’s  skin,  with  a sudden,  contemptuous  gesture, 
Jerking  the  Indian  arrows,  he  filled  it  with  powder  and  bullets 
Full  to  the  very  jaws,  and  handed  it  back  to  the  savage, 

Saying,  in  thundering  tones  : “ Here,  take  it ! this  is  your  answer  ! ” 
Silently  out  of  the  room  then  glided  the  glistening  savage, 

Bearing  the  serpent’s  skin,  and  seeming  himself  like  a serpent, 

Winding  his  sinuous  way  in  the  dark  to  the  depths  of  the  forest. 


y. 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  MAY  FLOWER. 

Just  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  the  mists  uprose  from  the  meadows, 
There  was  a stir  and  a sound  in  the  slumbering  village  of  Plymouth  ; 
Clanging  and  clicking  of  arms,  and  the  order  imperative,  “ Forward  1 ” 
Given  in  tone  suppressed,  a tramp  of  feet,  and  then  silence. 

Figures  ten,  in  the  mist,  marched  slowly  out  of  the  village. 

Standish  the  stalwart  it  was,  with  eight  of  his  valorous  army, 

Led  by  their  Indian  guide,  by  Hobomok,  friend  of  the  white  men, 
Northward  marching  to  quell  the  sudden  revolt  of  the  savage. 

Giants  they  seemed  in  the  mist,  or  the  mighty  men  of  King  David  ; 
Giants  in  heart  they  were,  who  believed  in  God  and  the  Bible,  — 

Ay,  who  believed  in  the  smiting  of  Midianites  and  Philistines. 


THE  SAILING  OF  THE  MAY  FLOWER. 


201 


Over  them  gleamed  far  off  the  crimson  banners  of  morning  ; 

Under  them  loud  on  the  sands,  the  serried  billows,  advancing, 

Fired  along  the  line,  and  in  regular  order  retreated. 

Many  a mile  had  they  marched,  when  at  length  the  village  of  Plymouth 
Woke  from  its  sleep,  and  arose,  intent  on  its  manifold  labors. 

Sweet  was  the  air  and  soft  ; and  slowly  the  smoke  from  the  chimneys 
Rose  over  roofs  of  thatch,  and  pointed  steadily  eastward  ; 

Men  came  forth  from  the  doors,  and  paused  and  talked  of  the  weather, 

Said  that  the  wind  had  changed,  and  was  blowing  fair  for  the  May  Flower ; 
Talked  of  their  Captain’s  departure,  and  all  the  dangers  that  menaced, 

He  being  gone,  the  town,  and  what  should  be  done  in  his  absence. 

Merrily  sang  the  birds,  and  the  tender  voices  of  women 
Consecrated  with  hymns  the  common  cares  of  the  household. 

Out  of  the  sea  rose  the  sun,  and  the  billows  rejoiced  at  his  coming  ; 

Beautiful  were  his  feet  on  the  purple  tops  of  the  mountains  ; 

Beautiful  on  the  sails  of  the  May  Flower  riding  at  anchor, 

Battered  and  blackened  and  worn  by  all  the  storms  of  the  winter. 

Loosely  against  her  masts  was  hanging  and  Happing  her  canvas. 

Rent  by  so  many  gales,  and  patched  by  the  hands  of  the  sailors. 

Suddenly  from  her  side,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  ocean, 

Darted  a puff  of  smoke,  and  floated  seaward  ; anon  rang 
Loud  over  field  and  forest  the  cannon’s  roar,  and  the  echoes 
Heard  and  repeated  the  sound,  the  signal-gun  of  departure  ! 

Ah  ! but  with  louder  echoes  replied  the  hearts  of  the  people  ! 

Meekly,  in  voices  subdued,  the  chapter  was  read  from  the  Bible, 

Meekly  the  prayer  was  begun,  but  ended  in  fervent  entreaty  ! 

Then  from  their  houses  in  haste  came  forth  the  Pilgrims  of  Plymouth, 

Men  and  women  and  children,  all  hurrying  down  to  the  sea-shore, 

Eager,  with  tearful  eyes,  to  say  farewell  to  the  May  Flower, 

Homeward  bound  o’er  the  sea,  and  leaving  them  here  in  the  desert. 

Foremost  among  them  was  Alden.  All  night  he  had  lain  without  slumber, 
Turning  and  tossing  about  in  the  heat  and  unrest  of  his  fever. 

He  had  beheld  Miles  Standish,  who  came  back  late  from  the  council, 

Stalking  into  the  room,  and  heard  him  mutter  and  murmur, 

Sometimes  it  seemed  a prayer,  and  sometimes  it  sounded  like  swearing. 

Once  he  had  come  to  the  bed,  and  stood  there  a moment  in  silence ; 

Then  lie  had  turned  away,  and  said  : “ I will  not  awake  him  ; 

Let  him  sleep  on,  it  is  best ; for  what  is  the  use  of  more  talking  ! ” 

Then  he  extinguished  the  light,  and  threw  himself  down  on  his  pallet, 

Dressed  as  he  was,  and  ready  to  start  at  the  break  of  the  morning,  — 

Covered  himself  with  the  cloak  he  had  worn  in  his  campaigns  in  Flanders,  — 
Slept  as  a soldier  sleeps  in  his  bivouac,  ready  for  action. 

But  with  the  dawn  he  arose  ; in  the  twilight  Alden  beheld  him 
Put  on  his  corselet  of  steel,  and  all  the  rest  of  his  armor. 

Buckle  about  his  waist  his  trusty  blade  of  Damascus, 

Take  from  the  comer  his  musket,  and  so  stride  out  of  the  chamber. 

Often  the  heart  of  the  youth  had  burned  and  yearned  to  embrace  him. 

Often  his  lips  had  essayed  to  speak,  imploring  for  pardon  ; 

All  the  old  friendship  came  back,  with  its  tender  and  grateful  emotions ; 

But  his  pride  overmastered  the  nobler  nature  within  him,  — 

Pi  ide,  and  the  sense  of  his  wrong,  and  the  burning  fire  of  the  insult. 

So  he  beheld  his  friend  departing  in  anger,  but  spake  not, 

Saw  him  go  forth  to  danger,  perhaps  to  death,  and  he  spake  not  ! 

Then  he  arose  from  his  bed,  and  heard  what  the  people  were  saying, 

Joined  in  the  talk  at  the  door,  with. Stephen  and  Richard  and  Gilbert, 


202 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


Joined  in  the  morning  prayer,  and  in  the  reading  of  Scripture, 

And,  with  the  others,  in  haste  went  hurrying  down  to  the  sea-shore, 
Down  to  the  Plymouth  Rock,  that  had  been  to  their  feet  as  a doorstep 
Into  a world  unknown,  — the  corner-stone  of  a nation  ! 

There  with  his  boat  was  the  Master,  already  a little  impatient 
Lest  he  should  lose  the  tide,  or  the  wind  might  shift  to  the  eastward, 
Square-built,  hearty,  and  strong,  with  an  odor  of  ocean  about  him, 
Speaking  with  this  one  and  that,  and  cramming  letters  and  parcels 
Into  his  pockets  capacious,  and  messages  mingled  together 
Into  his  narrow  brain,  till  at  last  he  was  wholly  bewildered. 

Nearer  the  boat  stood  Alden,  with  one  foot  placed  on  the  gunwale, 

One  still  firm  on  the  rock,  and  talking  at  times  with  the  sailors, 

Seated  erect  on  the  thwarts,  all  ready  and  eager  for  starting. 

He  too  was  eager  to  go,  and  thus  put  an  end  to  his  anguish, 

Thinking  to  fly  from  despair,  that  swifter  than  keel  is  or  canvas, 
Thinking  to  drown  in  the  sea  the  ghost  that  would  rise  and  pursue  him* 
But  as  he  gazed  on  the  crowd,  he  beheld  the  form  of  Priscilla 
Standing  dejected  among  them,  unconscious  of  all  that  was  passing. 

Fixed  were  her  eyes  upon  his,  as  if  she  divined  his  intention, 

Fixed  with  a look  so  sad,  so  reproachful,  imploring,  and  patient, 

That  with  a sudden  revulsion  his  heart  recoiled  from  its  purpose, 

As  from  the  verge  of  a crag,  where  one  step  more  is  destruction. 

Strange  is  the  heart  of  man,  with  its  quick,  mysterious  instincts  ! 

Strange  is  the  life  of  man,  and  fatal  or  fated  are  moments, 

Whereupon  turn,  as  on  hinges,  the  gates  of  the  wall  adamantine  ! 

“ Here  1 remain  ! ” he  exclaimed,  as  he  looked  at  the  heavens  above  him, 
Thanking  the  Lord  whose  breath  had  scattered  the  mist  and  the  madness, 
Wherein,  blind  and  lost,  to  death  he  was  staggering  headlong. 

“ Yonder  snow-white  cloud,  that  floats  in  the  ether  above  me, 

Seems  like  a hand  that  is  pointing  and  beckoning  over  the  ocean. 

There  is  another  hand,  that  is  not  so  spectral  and  ghost-like, 

Holding  me,  drawing  me  back,  and  clasping  mine  for  protection. 

Float,  0 hand  of  cloud,  and  vanish  away  in  the  ether  ! 

Roll  thyself  up  like  a fist,  to  threaten  and  daunt  me  ; I heed  not 
Either  your  warning  or  menace,  or  any  omen  of  evil  ! 

There  is  no  land  so  sacred,  no  air  so  pure  and  so  wholesome, 

As  is  the  air  she  breathes,  and  the  soil  that  is  pressed  by  her  footsteps. 
Here  for  her  sake  will  I stay,  and  like  an  invisible  presence 
Hover  around  her  forever,  protecting,  supporting  her  weakness  ; 

Yes  ! as  my  foot  was  the  first  that  stepped  on  this  rock  at  the  landing. 

So,  with  the  blessing  of  God,  shall  it  be  the  last  at  the  leaving ! ” 

Meanwhile  the  Master  alert,  but  with  dignified  air  and  important, 
Scanning  with  watchful  eye  the  tide  and  the  wind  and  the  weather, 
Walked  about  on  the  sands,  and  the  people  crowded  around  him 
Saying  a few  last  words,  and  enforcing  his  careful  remembrance. 

Then,  taking  each  by  the  hand,  as  if  he  were  grasping  a tiller, 

Into  the  boat  he  sprang,  and  in  haste  shoved  off  to  his  vessel, 

Glad  in  his  heart  to  get  rid  of  all  this  worry  and  flurry, 

Glad  to  be  gone  from  a land  of  sand  and  sickness  and  sorrow, 

Short  allowance  of  victual,  and  plenty  of  nothing  but  Gospel ! 

Lost  in  the  sound  of  the  oars  was  the  last  farewell  of  the  Pilgrims. 

0 strong  hearts  and  true  ! not  one  went  back  in  the  May  Flower  ! 

No,  not  one  looked  back,  who  had  set  his  hand  to  this  ploughing  ! 

Soon  were  heard  on  board  the  shouts  and  songs  of  the  sailors 
Heaving  the  windlass  round,  and  hoisting  the  ponderous  anchor. 


PRISCILLA. 


203 


Then  the  yards  were  braced,  and  all  sails  set  to  the  west-wind, 

Blowing  steady  and  strong  ; and  the  May  Flower  sailed  from  the  harbor, 
Rounded  the  point  of  the  Gurnet,  and  leaving  far  to  the  southward 
Island  and  cape  of  sand,  and  the  Field  of  the  First  Encounter, 

Took  the  wind  on  her  quarter,  and  stood  for  the  open  Atlantic, 

Borne  on  the  send  of  the  sea,  and  the  swelling  hearts  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Long  in  silence  they  watched  the  receding  sail  of  the  vessel, 

Much  endeared  ip  them  all,  as  something  living  and  human  ; 

Then,  as  if  filled  with  the  spirit,  and  wrapt  in  a vision  prophetic, 

Baring  his  hoary  head,  the  excellent  Elder  of  Plymouth 

Said,  “ Let  us  pray  ! ” and  they  prayed,  and  thanked  the  Lord  and  took  courage. 
Mournfully  sobbed  the  waves  at  the  base  of  the  rock,  and  above  them 
Bowed  and  whispered  the  wheat  on  the  hill  of  death,  and  their  kindred 
Seemed  to  awake  in  their  graves,  and  to  join  in  the  prayer  that  they  uttered.. 
Sun-illumined  and  white,  on  the  eastern  verge  of  the  ocean 
Gleamed  the  departing  sail,  like  a marble  slab  in  a graveyard  ; 

Buried  beneath  it  lay  forever  all  hope  of  escaping. 

Lo  ! as  they  turned  to  depart,  they  saw  the  form  of  an  Indian, 

Watching  them  from  the  hill  ; but  while  they  spake  with  each  other, 

Pointing  with  outstretched  hands,  and  saying,  “ Look  ! ” he  had  vanished. 

So  they  returned  to  their  homes  ; but  Alden  lingered  a little, 

Musing  alone  on  the  shore,  and  watching  the  wash  of  the  billows 
Round  the  base  of  the  rock,  and  the  sparkle  and  flash  of  the  sunshine. 

Like  the  spirit  of  God,  moving  visibly  over  the  waters. 


VI. 

PRISCILLA. 

Thus  far  a while  he  stood, and  mused  by  the  shore  of  the  ocean, 

Thinking  of  many  things,  and  most  of  all  of  Priscilla  ; 

And  as  if  thought  had  the  power  to  draw  to  itself,  like  the  loadstone, 
Whatsoever  it  touches,  by  subtile  laws  of  its  nature, 

Lo  ! as  he  turned  to  depart,  Priscilla  was  standing  beside  him. 

<(  Are  you  so  much  offended,  you  will  not  speak  to  me  ?”  said  she. 

“Am  I so  much  to  blame,  that  yesterday,  when  you  were  pleading 
Warmly  the  cause  of  another,  my  heart,  impulsive  and  wayward, 

Pleaded  your  own,  and  spake  out,  forgetful  perhaps  of  decorum  ? 

Certainly  you  can  forgive  me  for  speaking  so  frankly,  for  saying 
What  I ought  not  to  have  said,  yet  now  I can  never  unsay  it ; 

For  there  are  moments  in  life,  when  the  heart  is  so  full  of  emotion, 

That  if  by  chance  it  be  shaken,  or  into  its  depths  like  a pebble 
Drops  some  careless  word,  it  overflows,  and  its  secret, 

Spilt  on  the  ground  like  water,  can  never  be  gathered  together. 

Yesterday  I was  shocked,  when  I heard  you  speak  of  Miles  Standish, 
Praising  his  virtues,  transforming  his  very  defects  into  virtues, 

Praising  his  courage  and  strength,  and  even  his  fighting  in  Flanders, 

As  if  by  fighting  alone  you  could  win  the  heart  of  a woman, 

Quite  overlooking  yourself  and  the  rest,  in  exalting  your  hero. 

Therefore  I spake  as  I did,  by  an  irresistible  impulse. 

You  will  forgive  me,  I hope,  for  the  sake  of  the  friendship  between  us, 
Which  is  too  true  and  too  sacred  to  be  so  easily  broken  ! ” 

Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  the  scholar,  the  friend  of  Miles  Standish  : 


204 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


“ I was  not  angry  with  you,  with  myself  alone  I was  angry. 

Seeing  how  badly  I managed  the  matter  I had  in  my  keeping.  ” 

“No  ! ” interrupted  the  maiden,  with  answer  prompt  and  decisive; 

“No  ; you  were  angry  with  me,  for  speaking  so  frankly  and  freely. 

It  was  wrong,  I acknowledge  ; for  it  is  the  fate  of  a woman 

Long  to  be  patient  and  silent,  to  wait  like  a ghost  that  is  speechless. 

Till  some  questioning  voice  dissolves  the  spell  of  its  silence. 

Hence  is  the  inner  life  of  so  many  suffering  women 
Sunless  and  silent  and  deep,  like  subterranean  rivers 
Running  through  caverns  of  darkness,  unheard,  unseen,  and  unfruitful. 
Chafing  their  channels  of  stone,  with  endless  and  profitless  murmurs.” 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  the  young  man,  the  lover  of  women  : 

“ Heaven  forbid  it,  Priscilla  ; and  truly  they  seem  to  me  always 
More  like  the  beautiful  rivers  that  watered  the  garden  of  Eden, 

More  like  the  river  Euphrates,  through  deserts  of  Havilah  flowing. 

Filling  the  land  with  delight,  and  memories  sweet  of  the  garden  ! ” 

“ Ah,  by  these  words,  I can  see,”  again  interrupted  the  maiden, 

“How  very  little  you  prize  me,  or  care  for  what  I am  saying. 

When  from  the  depths  of  my  heart,  in  pain  and  with  secret  misgiving. 

Frankly  I speak  to  you,  asking  for  sympathy  only  and  kindness, 

Straightway  you  take  up  my  words,  that  are  plain  and  direct  and  in  earnest. 
Turn  them  away  from  their  meaning,  and  answer  with  flattering  phrases. 

This  is  not  right,  is  not  just,  is  not  true  to  the  best  that  is  in  you  ; 

For  I know  and  esteem  you,  and  feel  that  your  nature  is  noble. 

Lifting  mine  up  to  a higher,  a more  ethereal  level. 

Therefore  I value  your  friendship,  and  feel  it  perhaps  the  more  keenly 
If  you  say  aught  that  implies  I am  only  as  one  among  many. 

If  you  make  use  of  those  common  and  complimentary  phrases 
Most  men  think  so  fine,  in  dealing  and  speaking  with  women. 

But  which  women  reject  as  insipid,  if  not  as  insulting.” 

Mute  and  amazed  was  Alden  ; and  listened  and  looked  at  Priscilla, 
Thinking  he  never  had  seen  her  more  fair,  more  divine  in  her  beauty. 

He  who  but  yesterday  pleaded  so  glibly  the  cause  of  another, 

Stood  there  embarrassed  and  silent,  and  seeking  in  vain  for  an  answer. 

So  the  maiden  went  on,  and  little  divined  or  imagined 

What  was  at  work  in  his  heart,  that  made  him  so  awkward  and  speechless. 

“ Let  us,  then,  he  what  we  are,  and  speak  what  we  think,  and  in  all  things 
Keep  ourselves  loyal  to  truth,  and  the  sacred  professions  of  friendship. 

It  is  no  secret  I tell  you,  nor  am  I ashamed  to  declare  it : 

1 have  liked  to  he  with  you,  to  see  you,  to  speak  with  you  always. 

So  I was  hurt  at  your  words,  and  a little  affronted  to  hear  you 

Urge  me  to  marry  your  friend,  though  he  were  the  Captain  Miles  Stan  dish. 

For  I must  tell  you  the  truth  : much  more  to  me  is  your  friendship  . 

Than  all  the  love  he  could  give,  wrere  he  twice  the  hero  you  think  him.” 

Then  she  extended  her  hand,  and  Alden,  who  eagerly  grasped  it, 

Felt  all  the  ivounds  in  his  heart,  that  were  aching  and  bleeding  so  sorely. 
Healed  by  the  touch  of  that  hand,  and  he  said,  with  a voice  full  of  iecling: 

“ Yes,  we  must  ever  he  friends  ; and  of  all  who  offer  you  friendship 
Let  me  he  ever  the  first,  the  truest,  the  nearest  and  dearest  ! ” 

Casting  a farewell  look  at  the  glimmering  sail  of  the  May  Flower, 

Distant,  but  still  in  sight,  and  sinking  below  the  horizon. 

Homeward  together  they  walked,  with  a strange,  indefinite  feeling. 

That  all  the  rest  had  departed  and  left  them  alone  in  the  desert. 

But,  as  they  went  through  the  fields  in  the  blessing  and  smile  of  the  sunshine, 
Lighter  grew  their  hearts,  and  Priscilla  said  very  archly  : 


THE  MARCH  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


20 


“ Now  that  our  terrible  Captain  has  gone  in  pursuit  of  the  Indians, 

Where  he  is  happier  far  than  he  would  be  commanding  a household, 

You  may  speak  boldly,  and  tell  me  of  all  that  happened  between  you, 
When  you  returned  last  night,  and  said  how  ungrateful  you  found  me.” 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  and  told  her  the  whole  of  the  story,  — 
Told  her  his  own  despair,  and  the  direful  wrath  of  Miles  Standish. 

Whereat  the  maiden  smiled,  and  said  between  laughing  and  earnest, 

“ He  is  a little  chimney,  and  heated  hot  in  a moment  ! ” 

But  as  he  gently  rebuked  her,  and  told  her  how  he  had  suffered,  — 

How  he  had  even  determined  to  sail  that  day  in  the  May  Flower, 

And  had  remained  for  her  sake,  on  hearing  the  dangers  that  threatened,  •— 
All  her  manner  was  changed,  and  she  said  with  a faltering  accent, 

“ Truly  I thank  you  for  this  : how  good  you  have  been  to  me  always  ! ” 

Thus,  as  a pilgrim  devout,  who  toward  Jerusalem  journeys, 

Taking  three  steps  in  advance,  and  one  reluctantly  backward, 

Urged  by  importunate  zeal,  and  withheld  by  pangs  of  contrition  ; 

Slowly  but  steadily  onward,  receding  yet  ever  advancing, 

Journeyed  this  Puritan  youth  to  the  Holy  Land  of  his  longings, 

Urged  by  the  fervor  of  love,  and  withheld  by  remorseful  misgivings. 


TIL 

THE  MARCH  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 

Meanwhile  the  stalwart  Miles  Standish  was  marching  steadily  northward., 
Winding  through  forest  and  swamp,  and  along  the  trend  of  the  sea-shore, 
All  day  long,  with  hardly  a halt,  the  fire  of  his  anger 
Burning  and  crackling  within,  and  the  sulphurous  odor  of  powder 
Seeming  more  sweet  to  his  nostrils  than  all  the  scents  of  the  forest. 

Silent  and  moody  he  went,  and  much  lie  revolved  his  discomfort ; 

He  who  was  used  to  success,  and  to  easy  victories  always, 

Thus  to  be  flouted,  rejected,  and  laughed  to  scorn  by  a maiden, 

Thus  to  be  mocked  and  betrayed  by  the  friend  whom  most  he  had  trusted ! 
Ah  ! ’t  was  too  much  to  be  borne,  and  he  fretted  and  chafed  in  his  armor  ! 

“ I alone  am  to  blame,”  he  muttered,  “ for  mine  was  the  folly. 

What  has  a rough  old  soldier,  grown  grim  and  gray  in  the  harness, 

Used  to  the  camp  and  its  ways,  to  do  with  the  wooing  of  maidens  ? 

’T  was  but  a dream,  — let  it  pass,  — let  it  vanish  like  so  many  others  ! 
What  I thought  was  a flower,  is  only  a weed,  and  is  worthless  ; 

Out  of  my  heart  will  I pluck  it,  and  throw  it  away,  and  henceforward 
Be  but  a fighter  of  battles,  a lover  and  wooer  of  dangers  ! ” 

Thus  he  revolved  in  his  mind  his  sorry  defeat  and  discomfort, 

While  he  was  marching  by  day  or  lying  at  night  in  the  forest, 

Looking  up  at  the  trees,  and  the  constellations  beyond  them. 

After  a three  days  march  he  came  to  an  Indian  encampment 
Pitched  on  the  edge  of  a meadow,  between  the  sea  and  the  forest ; 

W omen  at  work  by  the  tents,  and  the  warriors,  horrid  with  war-paint, 
Seated  about  a fire,  and  smoking  and  talking  together  ; 

Who,  when  thev  saw  from  afar  the  sudden  approach  of  the  white  men, 

Saw  the  flash  of  the  sun  on  breastplate  and  sabre  and  musket, 

Straightway  leaped  to  their  feet,  and  two,  from  among  them  advancing 
Came  to  parley  with  Standish,  and  offer  him  furs  as  a present ; 

Friendship  was  in  their  looks,  but  in  their  hearts  there  was  hatred. 


206 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


Braves  of  the  tribe  were  these,  and  brothers  gigantic  in  stature, 

Huge  as  Goliath  of  Gath,  or  the  terrible  Og,  king  of  Bashan  ; 

One  was  Pecksuot  named,  and  the  other  was  called  Wattawamat. 

Round  their  necks  were  suspended  their  knives  in  scabbards  of  wampum, 
Two-edged,  trenchant  knives,  with  points  as  sharp  as  a needle. 

Other  arms  had  they  none,  for  they  were  cunning  and  crafty. 

“ Welcome,  English  ! ” they  said,  — these  words  they  had  learned  from  the  traders 
Touching  at  times  on  the  coast,  to  barter  and  chaffer  for  peltries. 

Then  in  their  native  tongue  they  began  to  parley  with  Standish, 

Through  his  guide  and  interpreter,  Hobomok,  friend  of  the  white  man, 

Begging  for  blankets  and  knives,  but  mostly  for  muskets  and  powder, 

Kept  by  the  white  man,  they  said,  concealed,  with  the  plague,  in  his  cellars. 
Ready  to  be  let  loose,  and  destroy  his  brother  the  red  man  ! 

But  when  Standish  refused,  and  said  he  would  give  them  the  Bible, 

Suddenly  changing  their  tone,  they  began  to  boast  and  to  bluster. 

Then  Wattawamat  advanced  with  a stride  in  front  of  the  other, 

And,  with  a lofty  demeanor,  thus  vauntingly  spake  to  the  Captain  : 

“Now  Wattawamat  can  see,  by  the  fiery  eyes  of  the  Captain, 

Angry  is  he  in  his  heart ; but  the  heart  of  the  brave  Wattawamat 
Is  not  afraid  at  the  sight.  He  was  not  born  of  a woman, 

But  on  a mountain,  at  night,  from  an  oak-tree  riven  by  lightning, 

Forth  he  sprang  at  a bound,  with  all  his  weapons  about  him, 

Shouting,  4 Who  is  there  here  to  fight  with  the  brave  Wattawamat  ? ’” 

Then  he  unsheathed  his  knife,  and,  whetting  the  blade  on  his  left  hand. 

Held  it  aloft  and  displayed  a woman’s  face  on  the  handle, 

Saying,  with  bitter  expression  and  look  of  sinister  meaning  : 

“ I have  another  at  home,  with  the  face  of  a man  on  the  handle  ; 

By  and  by  they  shall  many  ; and  there  will  be  plenty  of  children  ! ” 


Then  stood  Pecksuot  forth,  self-vaunting,  insulting  Miles  Standish  : 
While  with  his  fingers  he  patted  the  knife  that  hung  at  his  bosom, 
Drawing  it  half  from  its  sheath,  and  plunging  it  back,  as  he  muttered, 
“ By  and  by  it  shall  see  ; it  shall  eat ; ah,  ha  ! but  shall  speak  not  ! 
This  is  the  mighty  Captain  the  white  men  have  sent  to  destroy  us  ! 

He  is  a little  man  ; let  him  go  and  work  with  the  women  ! ” 


Meanwhile  Standish  had  noted  the  faces  and  figures  of  Indians 
Peeping  and  creeping  about  from  bush  to  tree  in  the  forest, 

Feigning  to  look  for  game,  with  arrows  set  on  their  bow-strings, 

Drawing  about  him  still  closer  and  closer  the  net  of  their  ambush. 

But  undaunted  he  stood,  and  dissembled  and  treated  them  smoothly ; 

So  the  old  chronicles  say,  that  were  writ  in  the  days  of  the  fathers. 

But  when  he  heard  their  defiance,  the  boast,  the  taunt,  and  the  insult, 

All  the  hot  blood  of  his  race,  of  Sir  Hugh  and  of  Thurston  de  Standish, 

Boiled  and  beat  in  his  heart,  and  swelled  in  the  veins  of  his  temples. 

Headlong  he  leaped  on  the  boaster,  and,  snatching  his  knife  from  its  scabbard, 
Plunged  it  into  his  heart,  and,  reeling  backward,  the  savage 
Fell  with  his  face  to  the  sky,  and  a fiendlike  fierceness  upon  it. 

Straight  there  arose  from  the  forest  the  awful  sound  of  the  war-whoop, 

And,  like  a flurry  of  snow  on  the  whistling  wind  of  December, 

Swift  and  sudden  and  keen  came  a flight  of  feathery  arrows. 

Then  came  a cloud  of  smoke,  and  out  of  the  cloud  came  the  lightning, 

Out  of  the -lightning  thunder  ; and  death  unseen  ran  before  it. 

Frightened  the  savages  fled  for  shelter  in  swamp  and  in  thicket, 

Hotly  pursued  and  beset ; but  their  sachem,  the  brave  Wattawamat, 

Fled  not ; he  was  dead.  Unswerving  and  swift  had  a bullet 


THE  SPINNING-WHEEL.  207 

Passed  through  his  brain,  and  he  fell  with  both  hands  clutching  the  greensward. 
Seeming  in  death  to  hold  back  from  his  foe  the  land  of  his  fathers. 

There  on  the  flowers  of  the  meadow  the  warriors  lay,  and  above  them. 

Silent,  with  folded  arms,  stood  Hobomok,  friend  of  the  white  man. 

Smiling  at  length  he  exclaimed  to  the  stalwart  Captain  of  Plymouth  : 

“ Pecksuot  bragged  very  loud,  of  his  courage,  his  strength,  and  his  stature,  — 
Mocked  the  great  Captain,  and  called  him  a little  man  ; but  1 see  now 
Big  enough  have  you  been  to  lay  him  speechless  before  you  ! ” 

Thus  the  first  battle  was  fought  and  won  by  the  stalwart  Miles  Standish, 

When  the  tidings  thereof  were  brought  to  the  village  of  Plymouth, 

And  as  a trophy  of  war  the  head  of  the  brave  Wattawamat 

Scowled  from  the  roof  of  the  fort,  which  at  once  was  a church  and  a fortress. 

All  who  beheld  it  rejoiced,  and  praised  the  Lord,  and  took  courage. 

Only  Priscilla  averted  her  face  from  this  spectre  of  terror, 

Thanking  God  in  her  heart  that  she  had  not  married  Miles  Standish  ; 

Shrinking,  fearing  almost,  lest,  coming  home  from  his  battles,. 

He  should  lay  claim  to  her  hand,  as  the  prize  and  reward  of  his  valor. 


VIII. 

THE  SPINNING-WHEEL. 

Month  after  month  passed  away,  and  in  Autumn  the  ships  of  the  merchants 
Came  with  kindred  and  friends,  with  cattle  and  corn  for  the  Pilgrims. 

All  in  the  village  was  peace  ; the  men  were  intent  on  their  labors, 

Busy  with  hewing  and  building,  with  garden-plot  and  with  merestead, 

Busy  with  breaking  the  glebe,  and  mowing  the  grass  in  the  meadows, 
Searching  the  sea  for  its  fish,  and  hunting  the  deer  in  the  forest. 

All  in  the  village  was  peace  ; but  at  times  the  rumor  of  warfare 
Filled  the  air  with  alarm,  and  the  apprehension  of  danger. 

Bravely  the  stalwart  Standish  was  scouring  the  land  with  his  forces, 

Waxing  valiant  in  fight  and  defeating  the  alien  armies, 

Till  his  name  had  become  a sound  of  fear  to  the  nations. 

Anger  was  still  in  his  heart,  but  at  times  the  remorse  and  contrition 
Which  in  all  noble  natures  succeed  the  passionate  outbreak, 

Came  like  a rising  tide,  that  encounters  the  rush  of  a river, 

Staying  its  current  awhile,  but  making  it  bitter  and  brackish. 

Meanwhile  Alden  at  home  had  built  him  a new  habitation, 

Solid,  substantial,  of  timber  rough-hewn  from  the  firs  of  the  forest. 
Wooden-barred  was  the  door,  and  the  roof  was  covered  with  rushes  ; 

Latticed  the  windows  were,  and  the  window-panes  were  of  paper, 

Oiled  to  admit  the  light,  while  wind  and  rain  were  excluded. 

There  too  he  dug  a well,  and  around  it  planted  an  orchard  : 

Still  may  be  seen  to  this  day  some  trace  of  the  well  and  the  orchard. 

Close  to  the  house  was  the  stall,  where,  safe  and  secure  from  annoyance, 
Raghorn,  the  snow-white  bull,  that  had  fallen  to  Alden’s  allotment 
In  the  division  of  cattle,  might  ruminate  in  the  night-time 
Over  the  pastures  he  cropped,  made  fragrant  by  sweet  pennyroyal. 

Oft  when  his  labor  was  finished,  with  eager  feet  would  the  dreamer 
Follow  the  pathway  that  ran  through  the  woods  to  the  house  of  Priscilla, 
Led  by  illusions  romantic  and  subtile  deceptions  of  fancy, 

Pleasure  disguised  as  duty,  and  love  in  the  semblance  of  friendship. 


208 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  fashioned  the  walls  of  his  dwelling  ; 

Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  delved  in  the  soil  of  his  garden  ; 

Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  read  in  his  Bible  on  Sunday 
Praise  of  the  virtuous  woman,  as  she  is  described  in  the  Proverbs,  — 

How  the  heart  of  her  husband  doth  safely  trust  in  her  always, 

How  all  the  days  of  her  life  she  will  do  him  good,  and  not  evil, 

How  she  seeketh  the  wool  and  the  flax  and  worketh  with  gladness, 

How  she  layeth  her  hand  to  the  spindle  ajid  holdeth  the  distaff, 

How  she  is  not  afraid  of  the  snow  for  herself  or  her  household, 

Knowing  her  household  are  clothed  with  the  scarlet  cloth  of  her  weaving  ! 

So  as  she  sat  at  her  wheel  one  afternoon  in  the  Autumn, 

Alden,  who  opposite  sat,  and  was  watching  her  dexterous  fingers, 

As  if  the  thread  she  was  spinning  were  that  of  his  life  and  his  fortune, 

After  a pause  in  their  talk,  thus  spake  to  the  sound  of  the  spindle. 

4 ‘Truly,  Priscilla,”  he  said,  “when  I see  you  spinning  and  spinning, 

[Never  idle  a moment,  but  thrifty  and  thoughtful  of  others, 

Suddenly  you  are  transformed,  are  visibly  changed  in  a moment ; 

You  are  no  longer  Priscilla,  but  Bertha  the  Beautiful  Spinner.” 

Here  the  light  foot  on  the  treadle  grew  swifter  and  swifter  ; the  spindle 
Uttered  an  angry  snarl,  and  the  thread  snapped  short  in  her  fingers  ; 

While  the  impetuous  speaker,  not  heeding  the  mischief,  continued  : 

“You  are  the  beautiful  Bertha,  the  spinner,  the  queen  of  Helvetia  ; 

She  whose  story  I read  at  a stall  in  the  streets  of  Southampton, 

Who,  as  she  rode  on  her  palfrey,  o’er  valley  and  meadow  and  mountain, 

Ever  was  spinning  her  thread  from  a distaff  fixed  to  her  saddle. 

She  was  so  thrifty  and  good,  that  her  name  passed  into  a proverb. 

So  shall  it  be  with  your  own,  when  the  spinning-wheel  shall  no  longer 
Hum  in  the  house  of  the  farmer,  and  fill  its  chambers  with  music. 

Then  shall  the  mothers,  reproving,  relate  how  it  was  in  their  childhood, 
Praising  the  good  old  times,  and  the  days  of  Priscilla  the  spinner  ! ” 

Straight  uprose  from  her  wheel  the  beautiful  Puritan  maiden, 

Pleased  with  the  praise  of  her  thrift  from  him  whose  praise  was  the  sweetest, 
Drew  from  the  reel  on  the  table  a snowy  skein  of  her  spinning, 

Thus  making  answer,  meanwhile,  to  the  flattering  phrases  of  Alden  : 

“ Come,  you  must  not  be  idle  ; if  I am  a pattern  for  housewives, 

Show  yourself  equally  worthy  of  being  the  model  of  husbands. 

Hold  this  skein  on  your  hands,  while  I wind  it,  ready  for  knitting ; 

Then  who  knows  but  hereafter,  when  fashions  have  changed  and  the  manners, 
Fathers  may  talk  to  their  sons  of  the  good  old  times  of  John  Alden  ! ” 

Thus,  with  a jest  and  a laugh,  the  skein  on  his  hands  she  adjusted, 

He  sitting  awkwardly  there,  with  his  arms  extended  before  him, 

She  standing  graceful,  erect,  and  winding  the  thread  from  his  fingers. 
Sometimes  chiding  a little  his  clumsy  manner  of  holding, 

Sometimes  touching  his  hands,  as  she  disentangled  expertly 
Twist  or  knot  in  the  yarn,  unawares  — for  how  could  she  help  it  ? — 

Sending  electrical  thrills  through  every  nerve  in  his  body. 

Lo  ! in  the  midst  of  this  scene,  a breathless  messenger  entered, 

Bringing  in  hurry  and  heat  the  terrible  news  from  the  village. 

Yes  ; Miles  Standish  was  dead  ! — an  Indian  had  brought  them  the  tidings,  — 
Slain  by  a poisoned  arrow,  shot  down  in  the  front  of  the  battle, 

Into  an  ambush  beguiled,  cut  off  with  the  whole  of  his  forces  ; 

All  the  town  would  be  burned,  and  all  the  people  be  murdered  ! 

Such  were  the  tidings  of  evil  that  burst  on  the  hearts  of  the  hearers. 

Silent  and  statue-like  stood  Priscilla,  her  face  looking  backward 
Still  at  the  face  of  the  speaker,  her  arms  uplifted  in  horror  \ 


THE  WEDDING-DAY. 


209 


But  John  Alden,  upstarting,  as  if  the  barb  of  the  arrow 

Piercing  the  heart  of  his  friend  had  struck  his  own,  and  had  sundered 

Once  and  forever  the  bonds  that  held  him  bound  as  a captive, 

Wild  with  excess  of  sensation,  the  awful  delight  of  his  freedom, 

Mingled  with  pain  and  regret,  unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing, 

Clasped,  almost  with  a groan,  the  motionless  form  of  Priscilla, 

Pressing  her  close  to  his  heart,  as  forever  his  own,  and  exclaiming  : 

“Those° whom  the  Lord  hath  united,  let  no  man  put  them  asunder  ! ” 

Even  as  rivulets  twain,  from  distant  and  separate  sources, 

Seeing  each  other  afar,  as  they  leap  from  the  rocks,  and  pursuing 
Each  one  its  devious  path,  but  drawing  nearer  and  nearer, 

Kush  together  at  last,  at  their  trysting-place  in  the  forest ; 

So  these  lives  that  had  run  thus  far  in  separate  channels, 

Coming  in  sight  of  each  other,  then  swerving  and  flowing  asunder, 

Parted  by  barriers  strong,  but  drawing  nearer  and  nearer, 

Rushed  together  at  last,  and  one  was  lost  in  the  other. 

IX. 

THE  WEDDING-DAY. 

Forth  from  the  curtain  of  clouds,  from  the  tent  of  purple  and  scarlet, 

Issued  the  sun,  the  great  High-Priest,  in  his  garments  resplendent, 

Holiness  unto  the  Lord,  in  letters  of  light,  on  his  forehead, 

Round  the  hem  of  his  robe  the  golden  bells  and  pomegranates. 

Blessing  the  world  he  came,  and  the  bars  of  vapor  beneath  him 
Gleamed  like  a grate  of  brass,  and  the  sea  at  his  feet  was  a laver  ! 

This  was  the  wedding  morn  of  Priscilla  the  Puritan  maiden. 

Friends  were  assembled  together  ; the  Elder  and  Magistrate  also 

Graced  the  scene  with  their  presence,  and  stood  like  the  Law  and  the  Gospel, 

One  with  the  sanction  of  earth  and  one  with  the  blessing  of  heaven. 

Simple  and  brief  was  the  wedding,  as  that  of  Ruth  and  of  Boaz. 

Softly  the  youth  and  the  maiden  repeated  the  words  of  betrothal, 

Taking  each  other  for  husband  and  wife  in  the  Magistrate’s  presence, 

After  the  Puritan  way,  and  the  laudable  custom  of  Holland. 

Fervently  then,  and  devoutly,  the  excellent  Elder  of  Plymouth 

Prayed  for  the  hearth  and  the  home,  that  were  founded  that  day  in  affection, 

Speaking  of  life  and  of  death,  and  imploring  Divine  benedictions. 

Lo  ! when  the  service  was  ended,  a form  appeared  on  the  threshold, 

Clad  in  armor  of  steel,  a sombre  and  sorrowful  figure  ! 

Why  does  the  bridegroom  start  and  stare  at  the  strange  apparition  ? 

Why  does  the  bride  turn  pale,  and  hide  her  face  on  his  shoulder  ? 

Is  it  a phantom  of  air,  — a bodiless,  spectral  illusion  ? 

Is  it  a ghost  from  the  grave,  that  has  come  to  forbid  the  betrothal? 

Long  had  it  stood  there  unseen,  a guest  uninvited,  unwelcomed  ; 

Over  its  clouded  eyes  there  had  passed  at  times  an  expression 
Softening  the  gloom  and  revealing  the  warm  heart  hidden  beneath  them, 

As  when  across  the  sky  the  driving  rack  of  the  rain-cloud 
Grows  for  a moment  thin,  and  betrays  the  sun  by  its  brightness. 

Once  it  had  lifted  its  hand,  and  moved  its  lips,  but  was  silent, 

As  if  an  iron  will  had  mastered  the  fleeting  intention. 

But  when  were  ended  the  troth  and  the  prayer  and  the  last  benediction, 

Into  the  room  it  strode,  and  the  people  beheld  with  amazement 
Bodily  there  in  his  armor  Miles  Stan  dish,  the  Captain  of  Plymouth  ! 

14 


210 


THE  COUETSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH. 


Grasping  the  bridegroom’s  hand,  he  said  with  emotion,  “ Forgive  me  ! 

I have  been  angry  and  hurt,  — too  long  have  I cherished  the  feeling  ; 

I have  been  cruel  and  hard,  but  now,  thank  God  ! it  is  ended. 

Mine  is  the  same  hot  blood  that  leaped  in  the  veins  of  Hugh  Standish, 

Sensitive,  swift  to  resent,  but  as  swift  in  atoning  for  error. 

Never  so  much  as  now  was  Miles  Standish  the  friend  of  John  Alden.” 

Thereupon  answered  the  bridegroom  : “Let  all  be  forgotten  between  us,  — 

All  save  the  dear,  old  friendship,  and  that  shall  grow  older  and  dearer  ! ” 

Then  the  Captain  advanced,  and,  bowing,  saluted  Priscilla, 

Gravely,  and  after  the  manner  of  old-fashioned  gentry  in  England, 

Something  of  camp  and  of  court,  of  town  and  of  country,  commingled, 

Wishing  her  joy  of  her  wedding,  and  loudly  lauding  her  husband.'' 

Then  he  said  with  a smile  : “I  should  have  remembered  the  adage,  — 

If  you  would  be  well  served,  you  must  serve  yourself ; and  moreover, 

No  man  can  gather  cherries  in  Kent  at  the  season  of  Christmas  ! ” 

Great  was  the  people’s  amazement,  and  greater  yet  their  rejoicing, 

Thus  to  behold  once  more  the  sunburnt  face  of  their  Captain, 

Whom  they  had  mourned  as  dead  ; and  they  gathered  and  crowded  about  him, 
Eager  to  see  him  and  hear  him,  forgetful  of  bride  and  of  bridegroom, 

Questioning,  answering,  laughing,  and  each  interrupting  the  other, 

Till  the  good  Captain  declared,  being  quite  overpowered  and  bewildered, 

He  had  rather  by  far  break  into  an  Indian  encampment, 

Than  come  again  to  a wedding  to  which  he  had  not  been  invited. 

Meanwhile  the  bridegroom  went  forth  and  stood  with  the  bride  at  the  doorway, 
Breathing  the  perfumed  air  of  that  warm  and  beautiful  morning. 

Touched  with  autumnal  tints,  but  lonely  and  sad  in  the  sunshine. 

Lay  extended  before  them  the  land  of  toil  and  privation  ; 

There  were  the  graves  of  the  dead,  and  the  barren  waste  of  the  sea-shore, 

There  the  familiar  fields,  the  groves  of  pine,  and  the  meadows ; 

But  to  their  eyes  transfigured,  it  seemed  as  the  Garden  of  Eden, 

Filled  with  the  presence  of  God,  whose  voice  was  the  sound  of  the  ocean. 

Soon  was  their  vision  disturbed  by  the  noise  and  stir  of  departure. 

Friends  coming  forth  from  the  house,  and  impatient  of  longer  delaying. 

Each  with  his  plan  for  the  day,  and  the  work  that  was  left  uncompleted. 

Then  from  a stall  near  at  hand,  amid  exclamations  of  wonder, 

Alden  the  thoughtful,  the  careful,  so  happy,  so  proud  of  Priscilla, 

Brought  out  his  snow-white  bull,  obeying  the  hand  Gf  its  master, 

Led  by  a cord  that  was  tied  to  an  iron  ring  in  its  nostrils, 

Covered  with  crimson  cloth,  and  a cushion  placed  for  a saddle. 

She  should  not  walk,  he  said,  through  the  dust  and  heat  of  the  noonday  ; 

Nay,  she  should  ride  like  a queen,  not  plod  along  like  a peasant. 

Somewhat  alarmed  at  first,  but  reassured  by  the  others, 

Placing  her  hand  on  the  cushion,  her  foot  in  the  hand  of  her  husband, 

Gayly,  with  joyous  laugh,  Priscilla  mounted  her  palfrey. 

“ Nothing  is  wanting  now,”  he  said  with  a smile,  “ but  the  distaff  ; 

Then  you  would  be  in  truth  my  queen,  my  beautiful  Bertha  ! ” 

Onward  the  bridal  procession  now  moved  to  their  new  habitation, 

Happy  husband  and  wife,  and  friends  conversing  together. 

Pleasantly  murmured  the  brook,  as  they  crossed  the  ford  in  the  forest. 

Pleased  with  the  image  that  passed,  like  a dream  of  love  through  its  bosom, 
Tremulous,  floating  in  air,  o’er  the  depths  of  the  azure  abysses. 

Down  through  the  golden  leaves  the  sun  was  pouring  his  splendors, 

Gleaming  on  purple  grapes,  that,  from  branches  above  them  suspended, 


PROMETHEUS. 


211 


Mingled  their  odorous  breath  with  the  balm  of  the  pine  and  the  fir-tree, 
Wild  and  sweet  as  the  clusters  that  grew  in  the  valley  of  Eschol. 

Like  a picture  it  seemed  of  the  primitive,  pastoral  ages, 

Fresh  with  the  youth  of  the  world,  and  recalling  Rebecca  and  Isaac, 
Old  and  yet  ever  new,  and  simple  and  beautiful  always, 

Love  immortal  and  young  in  the  endless  succession  of  lovers. 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  passed  onward  the  bridal  procession. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

. . come  i gru  van  cantando  lor  lai, 

Facendo  in  aer  di  se  lunga  riga. 

Dante. 


PROMETHEUS, 

OR  THE  POET’S  FORETHOUGHT. 

Of  Prometheus,  how  undaunted 
On  Olympus’  shining  bastions 
His  audacious  foot  he  planted, 

Myths  are  told  and  songs  are  chanted, 
Full  of  promptings  and  suggestions. 

Beautiful  is  the  tradition 

Of  that  flight  through  heavenly  portals, 
The  old  classic  superstition 
Of  the  theft  and  the  transmission 
Of  the  fire  of  the  Immortals  ! 

First  the  deed  of  noble  daring, 

Born  of  heavenward  aspiration, 

Then  the  fire  with  mortals  sharing, 

Then  the  vulture,  — the  despairing 
Cry  of  pain  on  crags  Caucasian. 

All  is  but  a symbol  painted 
Of  the  Poet,  Prophet,  Seer  ; 

Only  those  are  crowned  and  sainted 
Who  with  grief  have  been  acquainted, 
Making  nations  nobler,  freer. 

In  their  feverish  exultations, 

In  their  triumph  and  their  yearning, 
In  their  passionate  pulsations, 

In  their  words  among  the  nations, 

The  Promethean  fire  is  burning. 

Shall  it,  then,  be  unavailing, 

All  this  toil  for  human  culture  ? 
Through  the  cloud-rack,  dark  and  trail- 
ing 

Must  they  see  above  them  sailing 
O’er  life’s  barren  crags  the  vulture  ? 


Such  a fate  as  this  was  Dante’s, 

By  defeat  and  exile  maddened  ; 

Thus  were  Milton  and  Cervantes, 
Nature’s  priests  and  Cory  ban  tes, 

By  affliction  touched  and  saddened. 

But  the  glories  so  transcendent 
That  around  their  memories  cluster, 
And,  on  all  their  steps  attendant, 

Make  their  darkened  lives  resplendent 
With  such  gleams  of  inward  lustre  ! 

All  the  melodies  mysterious, 

Through  the  dreary  darkness  chanted  ; 
Thoughts  in  attitudes  imperious, 

Voices  soft,  and  deep,  and  serious, 
Words  that  whispered,  songs  that 
haunted  ! 

All  the  soul  in  rapt  suspension, 

All  the  quivering,  palpitating 
Chords  of  life  in  utmost  tension, 

With  the  fervor  of  invention, 

With  the  rapture  of  creating  ! 

Ah,  Prometheus  ! heaven -scaling  ! 

In  such  hours  of  exultation 
Even  the  faintest  heart,  unquailing, 
Might  behold  the  vulture  sailing 
Round  the  cloudy  crags  Caucasian  ! 

Though  to  all  there  is  not  given 

Strength  for  such  sublime  endeavor, 
Thus  to  scale  the  walls  of  heaven, 

And  to  leaven  with  fiery  leaven 
All  the  hearts  of  men  forever  ; 

Yet  all  bards,  whose  hearts  unblighted 
Honor  and  believe  the  presage. 


212 


BIRDS  OP  PASSAGE. 


Hold  aloft  their  torches  lighted, 
Gleaming  through  the  realms  benighted, 
As  the}7  onward  bear  the  message  ! 


THE  LADDER  OF  ST.  AUGUS- 
TINE. 

Saint  Augustine  ! well  hast  thou  said, 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 
A ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 

Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame  ! 

All  common  things,  each  day’s  events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 
Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 

Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design, 

That  makes  another’s  virtues  less  ; 

The  revel  of  the  ruddy  wine, 

And  all  occasions  of  excess  ; 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things  ; 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth ; 
The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 
Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth  ; 

All  thoughts  of  ill ; all  evil  deeds, 

That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill ; 
"Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will ; — 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 
In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar  ; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more, 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 

That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs, 
When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 
Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies, 

Are  crossed  by  pathways,  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and 
kept 

Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight, 
But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 


Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 
With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast 
eyes, 

W e may  discern  — unseen  before  - 
A path  to  higher  destinies. 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past, 

' As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain. 

If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 
To  something  nobler  we  attain. 


THE  PHANTOM  SHIP. 

In  Mather’s  Magnalia  Christi, 

Of  the  old  colonial  time, 

May  be  found  in  prose  the  legend 
That  is  here  set  down  in  rhyme. 

A ship  sailed  from  New  Haven, 

And  the  keen  and  frosty  airs, 

That  filled  her  sails  at  parting, 

Were  heavy  with  good  men’s  prayers. 

“ 0 Lord  ! if  it  be  thy  pleasure  ” — 
Thus  prayed  the  old  divine  — 

“ To  bury  our  friends  in  the  ocean, 
Take  them,  for  they  are  thine  ! ” 

But  Master  Lamberton  muttered, 

And  under  his  breath  said  he, 

“ This  ship  is  so  crank  and  walty 
I fear  our  grave  she  will  be  l ” 

And  the  ships  that  came  from  England, 
When  the  winter  months  were  gone, 
Brought  no  tidings  of  this  vessel 
Nor  of  Master  Lamberton. 

This  put  the  people  to  praying 

That  the  Lord  would  let  them  hear 
What  in  his  greater  wisdom 

He  had  done  with  friends  so  dear. 

And  at  last  their  prayers  were  an- 
swered : — 

It  was  in  the  month  of  June, 

An  hour  before  the  sunset 
Of  a windy  afternoon, 

When,  steadily  steering  landward, 

A ship  was  seen  below, 

And  they  knew  it  was  Lamberton,  Mas- 
ter, 

Who  sailed  so  long  ago. 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS. 


213 


On  she  came,  with  a cloud  of  canvas, 
Right  against  the  wind  that  blew, 
Until  the  eye  could  distinguish 
The  faces  of  the  crew. 

Then  fell  her  straining  topmasts, 
Hanging  tangled  in  the  shrouds, 

And  her  sails  were  loosened  and  lifted, 
And  blown  away  like  clouds. 

And  the  masts,  with  all  their  rigging, 
Fell  slowly,  one  by  one, 

And  the  hulk  dilated  and  vanished, 

As  a sea-mist  in  the  sun  ! 

And  the  people  who  saw  this  marvel 
Each  said  unto  his  friend, 

That  this  wTas  the  mould  of  their  vessel, 
And  thus  her  tragic  end. 

And  the  pastor  of  the  village 
Gave  thanks  to  God  in  prayer. 

That,  to  quiet  their  troubled  spirits, 

He  had  sent  this  Ship  of  Air. 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE 
PORTS. 

A mist  was  driving  down  the  British 
Channel, 

The  day  was  just  begun, 

And  through  the  window-panes,  on  floor 
and  panel, 

Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 

It  glanced  on  flowing  flag  and  rippling 
pennon, 

And  the  white  sails  of  ships  ; 

And,  from  the  frowning  rampart,  the 
black  cannon 

Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 

Sandwich  and  Romney,  Hastings,  Hithe, 
and  Dover 

Were  all  alert  that  day, 

To  see  the  French  war-steamers  speeding 
over, 

When  the  fog  cleared  away. 

Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  couchant 
lions, 

Their  cannon,  through  the  night, 


Holding  their  breath,  had  watched,  in 
grim  defiance, 

The  sea-coast  opposite. 

And  now  they  roared  at  drum-beat  from 
their  stations 

On  every  citadel  ; 

Each  answering  each,  with  morning  salu- 
tations, 

That  all  was  well. 

And  down  the  coast,  all  taking  up  the 
burden, 

Replied  the  distant  forts, 

As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the 
Warden 

And  Lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Him  shall  no  sunshine  from  the  fields  of 
azure, 

No  drum-beat  from  the  wall, 

No  morning  gun  from  the  black  fort’s 
embrasure, 

Awaken  with  its  call ! 

No  more,  surveying  with  an  eye  impar- 
tial 

The  long  line  of  the  coast, 

Shall  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  Field 
Marshal 

Be  seen  upon  his  post ! 

For  in  the  night,  unseen,  a single  war- 
rior, 

In  sombre  harness  mailed, 

Dreaded  of  man,  and  surnamed  the  De- 
stroyer, 

The  rampart  wall  had  scaled. 

He  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the 
sleeper, 

The  dark  and  silent  room, 

And  as  he  entered,  darker  grew,  and 
deeper, 

The  silence  and  the  gloom. 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  or  dissemble, 

But  smote  the  Warden  hoar  ; 

Ah  ! what  a blow  ! that  made  all  Eng- 
land tremble 

And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,  without,  the  surly  cannon 
waited, 

The  sun  rose  bright  o’erhead  ; 

Nothing  in  Nature’s  aspect  intimated 

That  a great  man  was  dead. 


214 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


HAUNTED  HOUSES. 

All  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and 
died 

Are  haunted  houses.  Through  the 
open  doors 

The  harmless  phantoms  on  their  errands 
glide, 

With  feet  that  make  no  sound  upon 
the  floors. 

We  meet  them  at  the  doorway,  on  the 
stair, 

Along  the  passages  they  come  and  go, 

Impalpable  impressions  on  the  air, 

A sense  of  something  moving  to  and 
fro. 

There  are  more  guests  at  table,  than  the 
hosts 

Invited  ; the  illuminated  hall 

Is  thronged  with  quiet,  inoffensive 
ghosts, 

As  silent  as  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

The  stranger  at  my  fireside  cannot  see 

The  forms  I see,  nor  hear  the  sounds 
I hear  ; 

He  but  perceives  what  is  ; while  unto 
me 

All  that  has  been  is  visible  and  clear. 

We  have  no  title-deeds  to  house  or 
lands  ; 

Owners  and  occupants  of  earlier  dates 

From  graves  forgotten  stretch  their 
dusty  hands, 

And  hold  in  mortmain  still  their  old 
estates. 

The  spirit-world  around  this  world  of 
sense 

Floats  like  an  atmosphere,  and  every- 
where 

Wafts  through  these  earthly  mists  and 
vapors  dense 

A vital  breath  of  more  ethereal  air. 

Our  little  lives  are  kept  in  equipoise 

By  opposite  attractions  and  desires  ; 

The  struggle  of  the  instinct  that  enjoys, 

And  the  more  noble  instinct  that  as- 
pires. 

These  perturbations,  this  perpetual  jar 

Of  earthly  wrants  and  aspirations  high, 


Come  from  the  influence  of  an  unseen 
star, 

An  undiscovered  planet  in  our  sky. 

And  as  the  moon  from  some  dark  gate 
of  cloud 

Throws  o’er  the  sea  a floating  bridge 
of  light, 

Across  whose  trembling  planks  our  fan- 
cies crowd 

Into  the  realm  of  mystery  and  night, — 

So  from  the  world  of  spirits  there  de- 
scends 

A bridge  of  light,  connecting  it  with 
this, 

O’er  whose  unsteady  floor,  that  sways 
and  bends, 

Wander  our  thoughts  above  the  dark 
abyss. 


IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  CAM- 
BRIDGE. 

In  the  village  churchyard  she  lies, 

Dust  is  in  her  beautiful  eyes. 

No  more  she  breathes,  nor  feels,  nor 
stirs  ; 

At  her  feet  and  at  her  head 
Lies  a slave  to  attend  the  dead, 

But  their  dust  is  white  as  hers. 

Was  she  a lady  of  high  degree, 

So  much  in  love  with  the  vanity 

And  foolish  pomp  of  this  world  of 
ours  ? 

Or  was  it  Christian  charity, 

And  lowliness  and  humility, 

The  richest  and  rarest  of  all  dowers  ? 

Who  shall  tell  us  ? No  one  speaks  ; 

No  color  shoots  into  those  cheeks, 

Either  of  anger  or  of  pride, 

At  the  rude  question  we  have  asked  ; 
Nor  will  the  mystery  be  unmasked 
By  those  who  are  sleeping  at  her  side. 

Hereafter  ? — And  do  you  think  to  look 
On  the  terrible  pages  of  that  Book 
To  find  i er  failings,  faults,  and  errors  ? 
Ah,  you  will  then  have  other  cares, 

In  your  own  shortcomings  and  despairs, 
In  your  own  secret  sins  and  terrors  ! 


THE  TWO  ANGELS. 


215 


THE  EMPEROR’S  BIRD’S-NEST. 

Once  the  Emperor  Charlesof  Spain, 
With  liis  swarthy,  grave  commanders, 
I forget  in  what  campaign, 

Long  besieged,  in  mud  and  rain, 

Some  old  frontier  town  of  Flanders. 

Up  and  down  the  dreary  camp, 

In  great  boots  of  Spanish  leather, 
Striding  with  a measured  tramp, 

These  Hidalgos,  dull  and  damp, 

Cursed  the  Frenchmen,  cursed  the 
weather. 

Thus  as  to  and  fro  they  went, 

Over  upland  and  through  hollow, 
Giving  their  impatience  vent, 

Perched  upon  the  Emperor’s  tent, 

In  her  nest,  they  spied  a swallow. 

Yes,  it  was  a swallow’s  nest, 

Built  of  clay  and  hair  of  horses, 

Mane,  or  tail,  or  dragoon’s  crest, 

Found  on  hedge-rows  east  and  west, 
After  skirmish  of  the  forces. 

Then  an  old  Hidalgo  said, 

As  he  twirled  his  gray  mustachio, 
“Sure  this  swallow  overhead 
Thinks  the  Emperor’s  tent  a shed, 

And  the  Emperor  but  a Macho  ! ” 

Hearing  his  imperial  name 

Coupled  with  those  words  of  malice, 
Half  in  ang^f,  half  in  shame, 

Forth  the  great  campaigner  came 
Slowly  from  his  canvas  palace. 

“ Let  no  hand  the  bird  molest,” 

Said  he  solemnly,  “ nor  hurt  her  ! ” 
Adding  then,  by  way  of  jest, 

“ Golondrina  is  my  guest, 

’T  is  the  wife  of  some  deserter  ! ” 

Swift  as  bowstring  speeds  a shaft, 

Through  the  camp  was  spread  the  ru- 
mor, 

And  the  soldiers,  as  they  quaffed 
Flemish  beer  at  dinner,  laughed 
At  the  Emperor’s  pleasant  humor. 

So  unharmed  and  unafraid 

Sat  the  swallow  still  and  brooded, 

Till  the  constant  cannonade 
Through  the  walls  a breach  had  made 
And  the  siege  was  thus  concluded. 


Then  the  army,  elsewhere  bent, 

Struck  its  tents  as  if  disbanding, 

Only  not  the  Emperor’s  tent, 

For  he  ordered,  ere  he  went, 

Very  curtly,  “ Leave  it  standing  ! ” 

So  it  stood  there  all  alone, 

Loosely  flapping,  torn  and  tattered, 
Till  the  brood  was  fledged  and  flown, 
Singing  o’er  those  walls  of  stone 

Which  the  cannon-shot  had  shattered. 


THE  TWO  ANGELS. 

Two  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of 
Death, 

Passed  o’er  our  village  as  the  morning 
broke  ; 

The  dawn  was  on  their  faces,  and  beneath, 
The  sombre  houses  hearsed  with  plumes 
of  smoke. 

Their  attitude  and  aspect  were  the  same, 
Alike  their  features  and  their  robes  of 
white  ; 

But  one  was  crowned  with  amaranth,  as 
with  flame, 

And  one  with  asphodels,  like  flakes  of 
light. 

I saw  them  pause  on  their  celestial  way  ; 
Then  said  I,  with  deep  fear  and  doubt 
oppressed, 

“ Beat  not  so  loud,  my  heart,  lest  thou 
betray 

The  place  where  thy  beloved  are  at 
rest  ! ” 

And  he  who  wore  the  crown  of  asphodels, 
Descending,  at  my  door  began  to 
knock, 

And  my  soul  sank  within  me,  as  in  wells 
The  waters  sink  before  an  earthquake’s 
shock. 

I recognized  the  nameless  agony, 

The  terror . and  the  tremor  and  the 
pain, 

That  oft  before  had  filled  or  haunted  me, 
And  now  returned  with  threefold 
strength  again. 

The  door  I opened  to  my  heavenly  guest, 
And  listened,  for  I thought  I heard 
God’s  voice ; 


216  BIRDS  OF 

And,  knowing  whatsoe’er  he  sent  was 
best, 

Dared  neither  to  lament  nor  to  rejoice. 

Then  with  a smile,  that  filled  the  house 
with  light, 

“My  errand  is  not  Death,  but  Life,” 
he  said  ; 

And  ere  I answered,  passing  out  of  sight, 

On  his  celestial  embassy  he  sped. 

’T  was  at  thy  door,  0 friend  ! and  not  at 
mine, 

The  angel  with  the  amaranthine  wreath, 

Pausing,  descended,  and  with  voice  di- 
vine, 

Whispered  a word  that  had  a sound 
like  Death. 

Then  fell  upon  the  house  a sudden  gloom, 

A shadow  on  those  features  fair  and 
thin ; 

And  softly,  from  that  hushed  and  dark- 
ened room, 

Two  angels  issued,  where  but  one  went 
in. 

All  is  of  God  ! If  he  but  wave  his  hand, 

The  mists  collect,  the  rain  falls  thick 
and  loud, 

Till,  with  a smile  of  light  on  sea  and  land, 

Lo  ! he  looks  back  from  the  departing 
cloud. 

Angels  of  Life  and  Death  alike  are  his  ; 

Without  his  leave  they  pass  no  thresh- 
old o’er ; 

Who,  then,  would  wish  or  dare,  believing 
this, 

Against  his  messengers  to  shut  the 
door  ? 


DAYLIGHT  AND  MOONLIGHT. 

In  broad  daylight,  and  at  noon, 
Yesterday  I saw  the  moon 
Sailing  high,  but  faint  and  white, 
As  a scliool-boy’s  paper  kite. 

In  broad  daylight,  yesterday, 

I read  a Poet’s  mystic  lay  ; 

And  it  seemed  to  me  at  most 
As  a phantom,  or  a ghost. 

But  at  length  the  feverish  day 
Like  a passion  died  away, 


PASSAGE. 

And  the  night,  serene  and  still, 

Fell  on  village,  vale,  aAd  hill. 

Then  the  moon,  in  all  her  pride, 

Like  a spirit  glorified, 

Filled  and  overflowed  the  night 
With  revelations  of  her  light. 

And  the  Poet’s  song  again 
Passed  like  music  through  my  brain  ; 
Night  interpreted  to  me 
All  its  grace  and  mystery. 


THE  JEWISFI  CEMETERY  AT 
NEWPORT. 

How  strange  it  seems  ! These  Hebrews 
in  their  graves. 

Close  by  the  street  of  this  fair  seaport 
town, 

Silent  beside  the  never-silent  wraves, 

At  rest  in  all  this  moving  up  and 
down  ! 

The  trees  are  white  with  dust,  that  o’er 
their  sleep 

Wave  their  broad  curtains  in  the 
south- wind’s  breath, 

While  underneath  these  leafy  tents  they 
keep 

The  long,  mysterious  Exodus  of 
Death. 

And  these  sepulchral  stones,  so  old  and 
brown, 

That  pave  with  level  flags  their  burial- 
place, 

Seem  like  the  tablets  of  the  Law,  thrown 
down 

And  broken  by  Moses  at  the  moun- 
tain’s base. 

The  very  names  recorded  here  are 
strange, 

Of  foreign  accent,  and  of  different 
climes  ; 

Alvares  and  Rivera  interchange 

With  Abraham  and  Jacob  of  old 
times. 

“ Blessed  be  God ! for  he  created 
Death ! ” 

The  mourners  said,  ‘ 4 and  Death  is 
rest  and  peace”  ; 

Then  added,  in  the  certainty  of  faith, 

“And  giveth  Life  that  nevermore 
shall  cease.” 


OLIVER  BASSELIN.  217 


Closed  are.  the  portals  of  their  Syna- 
gogue, 

No  Psalms  of  David  now  the  silence 
break, 

No  Rabbi  reads  the  ancient  Decalogue 

In  the  grand  dialect  the  Prophets 
spake. 

Gone  are  the  living,  but  the  dead 
remain, 

And  not  neglected  ; for  a hand  un- 
seen, 

Scattering  its  bounty,  like  a summer 
rain, 

Still  keeps  their  graves  and  their 
remembrance  green. 

How  came  they  here  ? What  burst  of 
Christian  hate, 

What  persecution,  merciless  and 
blind, 

Drove  o’er  the  sea  — that  desert  deso- 
late— 

These  Ishmaels  and  Hagars  of  man- 
kind ? 

They  lived  in  narrow  streets  and  lanes 
obscure, 

Ghetto  and  Judenstrass,  in  mirk  and 
mire  ; 

Taught  in  the  school  of  patience  to 
endure 

The  life  of  anguish  and  the  death  of 
fire. 

All  their  lives  long,  with  the  unleavened 
bread 

And  bitter  herbs  of  exile  and  its  fears, 

The  wasting  famine  of  the  heart  they 
fed, 

And  slaked  its  thirst  with  marah  of 
their  tears. 

Anathema  maranatha  ! was  the  cry 

That  rang  from  town  to  town,  from 
street  to  street ; 

At  every  gate  the  accursed  Mordecai 

Was  mocked  and  jeered,  and  spurned 
by  Christian  feet. 

Pride  and  humiliation  hand  in  hand 

Walked  with  them  through  the  world 
where’er  they  went ; 

Trampled  and  beaten  were  they  as  the 
sand, 

And  yet  unshaken  as  the  continent. 


For  in  the  background  figures  vague  and 
vast 

Of  patriarchs  and  of  prophets  rose 
sublime, 

And  all  the  great  traditions  of  the  Past 

They  saw  reflected  in  the  coming 
time. 

And  thus  forever  with  reverted  look 

The  mystic  volume  of  the  world  they 
read, 

Spelling  it  backward,  like  a Hebrew 
book, 

Till  life  became  a Legend  of  the  Dead. 

But  ah  ! what  once  has  been  shall  be  no 
more  ! 

The  groaning  earth  in  travail  and  in 
pain 

Brings  forth  its  races,  but  does  not 
restore, 

And  the  dead  nations  never  rise  again. 


OLIVER  BASSELIN. 

In  the  Valley  of  the  Vire 
Still  is  seen  an  ancient  mill, 

With  its  gables  quaint  and  queer, 
And  beneath  the  window-sill, 

On  the  stone, 

These  words  alone  : 

“ Oliver  Basselin  lived  here.” 

Far  above  it,  on  the  steep, 

Ruined  stands  the  old  Chateau  ; 
Nothing  but  the  donjon-keep 
Left  for  shelter  or  for  show. 

Its  vacant  eyes 
Stare  at  the  skies, 

Stare  at  the  valley  green  and  deep. 

Once  a convent,  old  and  brown, 
Looked,  but  ah  ! it  looks  no  more, 
From  the  neighboring  hillside  down 
On  the  rushing  and  the  roar 
Of  the  stream 
Whose  sunny  gleam  • 

Cheers  the  little  Norman  town. 

In  that  darksome  mill  of  stone, 

To  the  water’s  dash  and  din, 
Careless,  humble,  and  unknown, 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin 
Songs  that  fill 
That  ancient  mill 
With  a splendor  of  its  own. 


218 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


Never  feeling  of  unrest 

Broke  the  pleasant  dream  he  dreamed  ; 
Only  made  to  be  his  nest, 

All  the  lovely  valley  seemed  ; 

No  desire 
Of  soaring  higher 
Stirred  or  fluttered  in  his  breast. 

True,  his  songs  were  not  divine  ; 

Were  not  songs  of  that  high  art, 
Which,  as  winds  do  in  the  pine, 

Find  an  answer  in  each  heart  ; 

But  the  mirth 
Of  this  green  earth 
Laughed  and  revelled  in  his  line. 

From  the  alehouse  and  the  inn, 

Opening  on  the  narrow  street, 

Came  the  loud,  convivial  din, 

Singing  and  applause  of  feet. 

The  laughing  lays 
That  in  those  days 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin. 

In  the  castle,  cased  in  steel, 

Knights,  who  fought  g,t  Agincourt, 
Watched  and  waited,  spur  on  heel ; 

But  the  poet  sang  for  sport 
Songs  that  rang 
Another  clang, 

Songs  that  lowlier  hearts  could  feel. 

In  the  convent,  clad  in  gray, 

Sat  the  monks  in  lonely  cells, 

Paced  the  cloisters,  knelt  to  pray, 

And  the  poet  heard  their  bells  ; 

But  his  rhymes 
Found  other  chimes, 

Nearer  to  the  earth  than  they. 

Gone  are  all  the  barons  bold, 

Gone  are  all  the  knights  and  squires, 
Gone  the  abbot  stern  and  cold, 

And  the  brotherhood  of  friars  ; 

Not  a name 
Remains  to  fame, 

From  those  mouldering  days  of  old  ! 

But  the  poet’s  memory  here 
Of  the  landscape  makes  a part ; 

Like  the  river,  swift  and  clear, 

Flows  his  song  through  many  a heart ; 
Haunting  still 
That  ancient  mill, 

In  the  Valley  of  the  Vire. 


VICTOR  GALBRAITH. 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 
At  daybreak  the  bugles  began  to  play, 
Victor  Galbraith  ! 

In  the  mist  of  the  morning  damp  and 
gray, 

These  were  the  words  they  seemed  to  say  : 
‘ ‘ Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! ” 

Forth  he  came,  with  a martial  tread  ; 
Firm  was  his  step,  erect  his  head  ; 

Victor  Galbraith, 

He  who  so  well  the  bugle  played, 

Could  not  mistake  the  words  it  said  : 

“ Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! ” 

He  looked  at  the  earth,  he  looked  at  the 
sky, 

He  looked  at  the  files  of  musketry, 
Victor  Galbraith  ! 

And  he  said,  with  a steady  voice  and  eye, 
“ Take  good  aim  ; I am  ready  to  die  ! ” 
Thus  challenges  death 
Victor  Galbraith. 

Twelve  fiery  tongues  flashed  straight  and 
red, 

Six  leaden  balls  on  their  errand  sped  ; 
Victor  Galbraith 

Falls  to  the  ground,  but  he  is  not  dead  ; 
His  name  was  not  stamped  on  those  balls 
of  lead, 

And  they  only  scath 
Victor  Galbraith. 

Three  balls  are  in  his  breast  and  brain, 
But  he  rises  out  of  the  dust  again, 
Victor  Galbraith  ! 

The  water  he  drinks  has  a bloody  stain  ; 
“ 0 kill  me,  and  put  me  out  of  my  pain  ! ” 
In  his  agony  prayeth 
Victor  Galbraith. 

Forth  dart  once  more  those  tongues  of 
flame, 

And  the  bugler  has  died  a death  of  shame, 
Victor  Galbraith  ! 

His  soul  has  gone  back  to  whence  it  came, 
And  no  one  answers  to  the  name, 

When  the  Sergeant  saith, 

“ Victor  Galbraith  ! ” 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 
By  night  a bugle  is  heard  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 


MY  LOST  YOUTH. 


219 


Through  the  mist  of  the  valley  damp  and 
gray 

The  sentinels  hear  the  sound,  and  say, 

‘ 4 That  is  the  wraith 
Of  Victor  Galbraith  ! ” 


MY  LOST  YOUTH. 

Often  I think  of  the  beautiful  town 
That  is  seated  by  the  sea  ; 

Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 

And  a verse  of  a Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still : 

44  A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 

I can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 
And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 

The  sheen  of  the  far- surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 

It  murmurs  and  whispers  still  : 

44  A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 

I remember  the  black  wharves  and  the 
slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free  ; 

And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still  : 

“A  boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 

I remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 
And  the  fort  upon  the  hill  ; 

The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o’er  and  o’er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 

And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still  : 

“ A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will. 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 

I remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 

How  it  thundered  o’er  the  tide  ! 


And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o’erlooking  the  tranquil 
bay, 

Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a thrill  : 

4 4 A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 

I can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 

The  shadows  of  Deering’s  Woods  ; 

And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a sabbath  sound,  as  of 
doves 

In  quiet  neighborhoods. 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still  : 

44  A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 

I remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that 
dart 

Across  the  school-boy’s  brain  ; 

The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still : 

44  A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 

There  are  things  of  which  I may  not 
speak  ; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die  ; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong 
heart  weak, 

And  bring  a pallor  into  the  cheek, 

And  a mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a chill : 

44  A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I meet 
When  I visit  the  dear  old  town  ; 

But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o’ershadow  each  well- 
known  street, 

As  they  balance  up  and  down, 

Are  singing  the  beautiful  song. 

Are  sighing  and 'whispering  still : 

44  A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
I thoughts.” 


220 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


And  Deering’s  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 
And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that 
were, 

I find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still  : 

“ A boy’s  will  is  the  wind’s  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts.” 


THE  ROPEWALK. 

In  that  building,  long  and  low, 

With  its  windows  all  a-row, 

Like  the  port-holes  of  a hulk, 
Human  spiders  spin  and  spin, 
Backward  down  their  threads  so  thin 
Dropping,  each  a hempen  bulk. 

At  the  end,  an  open  door  ; 

Squares  of  sunshine  on  the  floor 
Light  the  long  and  dusky  lane  ; 
And  the  whirring  of  a wheel, 

Dull  and  drowsy,  makes  me  feel 
All  its  spokes  are  in  my  brain. 

As  the  spinners  to  the  end 
Downward  go  and  reascend, 

Gleam  the  long  threads  in  the  sun  ; 
While  within  this  brain  of  mine 
Cobwebs  brighter  and  more  fine 
By  the  busy  wheel  are  spun. 

Two  fair  maidens  in  a swing, 

Like  white  doves  upon  the  wing, 

First  before  my  vision  pass  ; 
Laughing,  as  their  gentle  hands 
Closely  clasp  the  twisted  strands, 

At  their  shadow  on  the  grass. 

Then  a booth  of  mountebanks, 

With  its  smell  of  tan  and  planks, 

And  a girl  poised  high  in  air 
On  a cord,  in  spangled  dress, 

With  a faded  loveliness, 

And  a weary  look  of  care. 

Then  a homestead  among  farms, 

And  a woman  with  bare  arms 
Drawing  water  from  a well ; 

As  the  bucket  mounts  apace, 

With  it  mounts  her  own  fair  face, 

As  at  some  magician’s  spell. 


Then  an  old  man  in  a tower, 

Ringing  loud  the  noontide  hour, 

While  the  rope  coils  round  and  round 
Like  a serpent  at  his  feet, 

And  again,  in  swift  retreat, 

Nearly  lifts  him  from  the  ground. 

Then  within  a prison-yard, 

Faces  fixed,  and  stern,  and  hard, 
Laughter  and  indecent  mirth  ; 

Ah  ! it  is  the  gallows-tree  ! 

Breath  of  Christian  charity, 

Blow,  and  sweep  it  from  the  earth  ! 

Then  a school-boy,  with  his  kite 
Gleaming  in  a sky  of  light, 

And  an  eager,  upward  look  ; 

Steeds  pursued  through  lane  and  field  ; 
Fowlers  with  their  snares  concealed  ; 
And  an  angler  by  a brook. 

Ships  rejoicing  in  the  breeze, 

Wrecks  that  float  o’er  unknown  seas, 
Anchors  dragged  through  faithless 
sand ; 

Sea-fog  drifting  overhead, 

And,  with  lessening  line  and  lead, 
Sailors  feeling  for  the  land. 

All  these  scenes  do  I behold, 

These,  and  many  left  untold, 

In  that  building  long  and  low  ; 

While  the  wheel  goes  round  and  round, 
With  a drowsy,  dreamy  sound, 

And  the  spinners  backward  go. 

THE  GOLDEN  MILE-STONE. 

Leafless  are  the  trees ; their  purple 
branches 

Spread  themselves  abroad,  like  reefs  of 
coral, 

Rising  silent 

In  the  Red  Sea  of  the  winter  sunset. 

From  the  hundred  chimneys  of  the  vil- 

lage, 

Like  the  Afreet  in  the  Arabian  story, 
Smoky  columns 

Tower  aloft  into  the  air  of  amber. 

At  the  window  winks  the  flickering  fire- 
light ; 

Here  and  there  the  lamps  of  evening 
glimmer, 

Social  watch-fires 

Answering  one  another  through  the 
darkness. 


CATAWBA  WINE. 


221 


On  the  hearth  the  lighted  logs  are  glow- 
ing. 

And  like  Ariel  in  the  cloven  pine-tree 
For  its  freedom 

Groans  and  sighs  the  air  imprisoned  in 
them. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  old  men  seated, 

Seeing  ruined  cities  in  the  ashes, 

Asking  sadly 

Of  the  Past  what  it  can  ne’er  restore  them. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  youthful  dreamers, 

Building  castles  fair,  with  stately  stair- 
ways, 

Asking  blindly 

Of  the  Future  what  it  cannot  give  them. 

By  the  fireside  tragedies  are  acted 

In  whose  scenes  appear  two  actors  only, 
Wife  and  husband, 

And  above  them  God  the  sole  spectator. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  peace  and  com- 
fort, 

Wives  and  children,  with  fair,  thought- 
ful faces, 

Waiting,  watching 

For  a well-known  footstep  in  the  passage. 

Each  man’s  chimney  is  his  Golden  Mile- 
stone ; 

Is  the  central  point,  from  which  he  meas- 
ures 

Every  distance 

Through  the  gateways  of  the  world 
around  him. 

In  his  farthest  wanderings  still  he  sees  it ; 

Hears  the  talking  flame,  the  answering 
night- wind, 

As  he  heard  them 

Wrhen  he  sat  with  those  who  were,  but 
are  not. 

Happy  he  whom  neither  wealth  nor  fash- 
ion, 

Nor  the  march  of  the  encroaching  city, 
Drives  an  exile 

From  the  hearth  of  his  ancestral  home- 
stead. 

We  may  build  more  splendid  habitations, 

Fill  our  rooms  with  paintings  and  with 
sculptures, 

But  we  cannot 

Buy  with  gold  the  old  associations  ! 


CATAWBA  WINE. 

This  song  of  mine 
Is  a Song  of  the  Vine, 

To  be  sung  by  the  glowing  embers 
Of  wayside  inns, 

When  the  rain  begins 
To  darken  the  drear  Novembers. 

It  is  not  a song 
Of  the  Scuppernong, 

From  warm  Carolinian  valleys. 

Nor  the  Isabel 
And  the  Muscadel 
That  bask  in  our  garden  alleys. 

Nor  the  red  Mustang, 

Whose  clusters  hang 
O’er  the  waves  of  the  Colorado, 

And  the  fiery  flood 
Of  whose  purple  blood 
Has  a dash  of  Spanish  bravado. 

For  richest  and  best 
Is  the  wine  of  the  West, 

That  grows  by  the  Beautiful  River  ; 
Whose  sweet  perfume 
Fills  all  the  room 
With  a benison  on  the  giver. 

And  as  hollow  trees 
Are  the  haunts  of  bees, 

Forever  going  and  coming  ; 

So  this  crystal  hive 
Is  all  alive 

With  a swarming  and  buzzing  and  hum* 
ming. 

Very  good  in  its  way 
Is  the  Verzenay, 

Or  the  Sillery  soft  and  creamy  ; 

But  Catawba  wine 
Has  a taste  more  divine, 

More  dulcet,  delicious,  and  dreamy. 

There  grows  no  vine 
By  the  haunted  Rhine, 

By  Danube  or  Guadalquivir, 

Nor  on  island  or  cape, 

That  bears  such  a grape 
As  grows  by  the  Beautiful  River. 

Drugged  is  their  juice 
For  foreign  use, 

When  shipped  o’er  the  reeling  Atlantic, 
To  rack  our  brains 
With  the  fever  pains, 

That  have  driven  the  Old  World  frantic. 


222 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


To  the  sewers  and  sinks 
With  all  such  drinks, 

And  after  them  tumble  the  mixer  ; 

For  a poison  malign 
Is  such  Borgia  wine, 

Or  at  best  but  a Devil’s  Elixir. 

While  pure  as  a spring 
Is  the  wine  I sing, 

And  to  praise  it,  one  needs  but  name  it  ; 
For  Catawba  wine 
Has  need  of  no  sign, 

No  tavern-bush  to  proclaim  it. 

And  this  Song  of  the  Vine, 

This  greeting  of  mine, 

The  winds  and  the  birds  shall  deliver 
To  the  Queen  of  the  W est, 

In  her  garlands  dressed, 

On  the  banks  of  the  Beautiful  River. 


SANTA  FILOMENA. 

Whene’er  a noble  deed  is  wrought, 
Whene’er  is  spoken  a noble  thought, 

Our  hearts,  in  glad  surprise, 

To  higher  levels  rise. 

The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 
Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 

And  lifts  us  unawares 
Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 

Honor  to  those  whose  words  or  deeds 
Thus  help  us  in  our  daily  needs, 

And  by  their  overflow 
Raise  us  from  what  is  low  ! 

Thus  thought  I,  as  by  night  I read 
Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead, 

The  trenches  cold  and  damp, 

The  starved  and  frozen  camp,  — 

The  wounded  from  the  battle-plain, 

In  dreary  hospitals  of  pain, 

The  cheerless  corridors, 

The  cold  and  stony  floors. 

Lo  ! in  that  house  of  misery 
A lady  with  a lamp  I see 

Pass  through  the  glimmering  gloom, 
And  flit  from  room  to  room. 

And  slow,  as  in  a dream  of  bliss, 

The  speechless  sufferer  turns  to  kiss 
Her  shadow,  as  it  falls 
Upon  the  darkening  walls. 


As  if  a door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened  and  then  closed  suddenly, 

The  vision  came  and  went, 

The  light  shone  and  was  spent. 

On  England’s  annals,  through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song, 

That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 
From  portals  of  the  past. 

A Lady  with  a Lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  history  of  the  land, 

A noble  type  of  good, 

Heroic  womanhood. 

Nor  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spearr. 

The  symbols  that  of  yore 
Saint  Filomena  bore. 


THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE 
NORTH  CAPE. 

A LEAF  FROM  KING  ALFRED’S  OROSIUS. 

Othere,  the  old  sea-captain, 

Who  dwelt  in  Helgoland, 

To  King  Alfred,  the  Lover  of  Truth, 
Brought  a snow-white  walrus-tooth, 
Which  he  held  in  his  brown  right 
hand. 

His  figure  was  tall  and  stately, 

Like  a boy’s  his  eye  appeared  ; 

His  hair  was  yellow  as  hay, 

But  threads  of  a silvery  gray 
Gleamed  in  his  tawny  beard. 

Hearty  and  hale  was  Othere, 

His  cheek  had  the  color  of  oak  ; 

With  a kind  of  laugh  in  his  speech. 
Like  the  sea-tide  on  a beach, 

As  unto  the  King  he  spoke. 

And  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 

Had  a book  upon  his  knees, 

And  wrote  down  the  wondrous  tale 
Of  him  who  was  first  to  sail 
Into  the  Arctic  seas. 

‘ ‘ So  far  I live  to  the  northward, 

No  man  lives  north  of  me  ; 

To  the  east  are  wild  mountain-chains, 
And  beyond  them  meres  and  plains  •, 

To  the  westward  all  is  sea. 


DAYBREAK. 


223 


“So  far  I live  to  the  northward, 

From  the  harbor  of  Skeringes-hale, 

If  you  only  sailed  by  day, 

With  a fair  wind  all  the  way, 

More  than  a month  would  you  sail. 

“ I own  six  hundred  reindeer, 

With  sheep  and  swine  beside  ; 

I have  tribute  from  the  Finns, 
Whalebone  and  reindeer-skins, 

And  ropes  of  walrus-hide. 

“ I ploughed  the  land  with  horses, 

But  my  heart  was  ill  at  ease, 

For  the  old  seafaring  men 
Came  to  me  now  and  then, 

With  their  sagas  of  the  seas  ; — 

“Of  Iceland  and  of  Greenland, 

And  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

And  the  undiscovered  deep  ; — 

0 I could  not  eat  nor  sleep 
For  thinking  of  those  seas. 

“ To  the  northward  stretched  the  desert, 
How  far  I fain  would  know  ; 

So  at  last  I sallied  forth, 

And  three  days  sailed  due  north, 

As  far  as  the  whale-ships  go. 

“ To  the  west  of  me  was  the  ocean, 

To  the  right  the  desolate  shore, 

But  I did  not  slacken  sail 
For  the  walrus  or  the  whale, 

Till  after  three  days  more. 

“ The  days  grew  longer  and  longer, 

Till  they  became  as  one, 

And  northward  through  the  haze 

1 saw  the  sullen  blaze 

Of  the  red  midnight  sun. 

“And  then  uprose  before  me, 

Upon  the  water’s  edge, 

The  huge  and  haggard  shape 
Of  that  unknown  North  Cape, 

Whose  form  is  like  a wedge. 

“The  sea  was  rough  and  stormy, 

The  tempest  howled  and  wailed, 

And  the  sea-fog,  like  a ghost, 

Haunted  that  dreary  coast, 

But  onward  still  I sailed. 

“Four  days  I steered  to  eastward, 

Four  days  without  a night  : 


Round  in  a fiery  ring 
Went  the  great  sun,  0 King, 

With  red  and  lurid  light.” 

Here  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 
Ceased  writing  for  a while  ; 

And  raised  his  eyes  from  his  book, 
With  a strange  and  puzzled  look, 

And  an  incredulous  smile. 

But  Othere,  the  old  sea-captain, 

He  neither  paused  nor  stirred, 

Till  the  King  listened  and  then 
Once  more  took  up  his  pen, 

And  wrote  down  every  word. 

“ And  now  the  land,”  said  Others 
“ Bent  southward  suddenly, 

And  I followed  the  curving  shore 
And  ever  southward  bore 
Into  a nameless  sea. 

4 4 And  there  we  hunted  the  walrus. 

The  narwhale,  and  the  seal  ; 

Ha  ! *t  was  a noble  game  ! 

And  like  the  lightning’s  flame 
Flew  our  harpoons  of  steel. 

4 4 There  were  six  of  us  all  together, 
Norsemen  of  Helgoland  ; 

In  two  days  and  no  more 
We  killed  of  them  threescore, 

And  dragged  them  to  the  strand  ! ” 

Here  Alfred  the  Truth-Teller 
Suddenly  closed  his  book, 

And  lifted  his  blue  eyes, 

With  doubt  and  strange  surmise 
Depicted  in  their  look. 

And  Othere  the  old  sea-captain 
Stared  at  him  wild  and  weird, 

Then  smiled,  till  his  shining  teeth 
Gleamed  white  from  underneath 
His  tawny,  quivering  beard. 

And  to  the  King  -of  the  Saxons, 

In  witness  of  the  truth, 

Raising  his  noble  head, 

He  stretched  his  brown  hand,  and  said, 
44  Behold  this  walrus-tooth  ! ” 


DAYBREAK. 

% 

A wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  44  0 mists,  make  room  for  me.* 


224 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  “ Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone.” 

And  hurried  landward  far  away, 

Crying,  “Awake  ! it  is  the  day.” 

It  said  unto  the  forest,  “Shout ! 

Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out ! ” 

It  touched  the  wood-bird’s  folded  wing, 
And  said,  “ 0 bird,  awake  and  sing.” 

And  o’er  the  farms,  “ 0 chanticleer, 
Your  clarion  blow  ; the  day  is  near.” 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 

“ Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  morn.” 

It  shouted  through  the  belfry-tower, 
“Awake,  0 bell  ! proclaim  the  hour.” 

It  crossed  the  churchyard  with  a sigh, 
And  said,  “Not  yet  ! in  quiet  lie.” 


THE  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF 
AGASSIZ. 

May  28,  1857. 

It  was  fifty  years  ago 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 

In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud, 

A child  in  its  cradle  lay. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 
The  child  upon  her  knee, 

Saying  : “ Here  is  a story-book 
Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee.” 

“ Come,  wander  with  me,”  she  said, 

“ Into  regions  yet  untrod  ; 

A-nd  read  what  is  still  unread 
In  the  manuscripts 'of  God.” 

And  he  wandered  away  and  awuy 
"With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 

And  whenever  the  way  seemed  long, 

Or  his  heart  began  to  fail, 

She  would  sing  a more  wonderful  song, 
Or  tell  a more  marvellous  tale. 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a child, 

And  will  not  let  him  go, 


Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 
For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Yaud  ; 

Though  at  times  he  hears  in  his  dreams 
The  Ranz  des  Yaches  of  old, 

And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 
From  glaciers  clear  and  cold  ; 

And  the  mother  at  home  says,  u Hark  ! 

For  his  voice  I listen  and  yearn  ; 

It  is  growing  late  and  dark, 

And  my  boy  does  not  return  ! ” 


CHILDREN. 

Come  to  me,  0 ye  children  ! 

For  I hear  you  at  your  play, 

And  the  questions  that  perplexed  me 
Have  vanished  quite  away. 

Ye  open  the  eastern  windows, 

That  look  towards  the  sun, 

Where  thoughts  are  singing  swallows 
And  the  brooks  of  morning  run. 

In  your  hearts  are  the  birds  and  the 
sunshine, 

In  your  thoughts  the  brooklet’s  flow, 
But  in  mine  is  the  wind  of  Autumn 
And  the  first  fall  of  the  snow. 

Ah  ! wrhat  would  the  world  be  to  us 
If  the  children  were  no  more  ? 

We  should  dread  the  desert  behind  us 
Worse  than  the  dark  before. 

What  the  leaves  are  to  the  forest. 

With  light  and  air  for  food, 

Ere  their  sweet  and  tender  juices 
Have  been  hardened  into  wood,  — 

That  to  the  world  are  children  ; 

Through  them  it  feels  the  glow 
Of  a brighter  and  sunnier  climate 
Than  reaches  the  trunks  below. 

Come  to  me,  0 ye  children  ! 

And  whisper  in  my  ear 
What  the  birds  and  the  winds  are  sing- 
ing 

In  your  sunny  atmosphere. 

For  what  are  all  our  contrivings, 

And  the  wisdom  of  our  books, 

When  compared  with  your  caresses, 

And  the  gladness  of  your  looks  ? 


THE  CHILDREN’S  HOUR. 


225 


Ye  are  better  than  all  the  ballads 
That  ever  were  sung  or  said  ; 
For  ye  are  living  poems. 

And  all  the  rest  are  dead. 


SANDALPHON. 

Have  you  read  in  the  Talmud  of  old, 

In  the  Legends  the  Rabbins  have  told 
Of  the  limitless  realms  of  the  air, 

Have  you  read  it,  — the  marvellous  story 
Of  Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Glory, 
Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer  ? 

How,  erect,  at  the  outermost  gates 
Of  the  City  Celestial  he  waits, 

With  his  feet  on  the  ladder  of  light, 
That,  crowded  with  angels  unnumbered, 
By  Jacob  was  seen,  as  he  slumbered 
Alone  in  the  desert  at  night  ? 

The  Angels  of  Wind  and  of  Fire 
Chant  only  one  hymn,  and  expire 
With  the  song’s  irresistible  stress  ; 
Expire  in  their  rapture  and  wonder, 

As  harp-strings  are  broken  asunder 
By  music  they  throb  to  express. 

But  serene  in  the  rapturous  throng, 
Unmoved  by  the  rush  of  the  song, 

With  eyes  unimpassioned  and  slow, 
Among  the  dead  angels,  the  deathless 
Sandalphon  stands  listening  breathless 
To  sounds  that  ascend  from  below  ; — 

From  the  spirits  on  earth  that  adore, 
From  the  souls  that  entreat  and  implore 


In  the  fervor  and  passion  of  prayer  ; 
From  the  hearts  that  are  broken  with 
losses, 

And  weary  with  dragging  the  crosses 
Too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear. 

And  he  gathers  the  prayers  as  he  stands, 
And  they  change  into  flowers  in  his 
hands, 

Into  garlands  of  purple  and  red  ; 

And  beneath  the  great  arch  of  the  por- 
tal, 

Through  the  streets  of  the  City  Immui- 
tal 

Is  wafted  the  fragrance  they  shed. 

It  is  but  a legend,  I know,  — 

A fable,  a phantom,  a show, 

Of  the  ancient  Rabbinical  lore  ; 

Yet  the  old  mediaeval  tradition, 

The  beautiful,  strange  superstition, 

But  haunts  me  and  holds  me  the 
more. 

When  I look  from  my  window  at  night, 
And  the  welkin  above  is  all  white, 

All  throbbing  and  panting  with 
stars, 

Among  them  majestic  is  standing 
Sandalphon  the  angel,  expanding 
His  pinions  in  nebulous  bars. 

And  the  legend,  I feel,  is  a part 
Of  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  heart. 
The  frenzy  and  fire  of  the  brain, 

That  grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden, 
The  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 

To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain. 


FLIGHT  THE  SECOND. 


THE  CHILDREN’S  HOUR. 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 
Comes  a pause  in  the  day’s  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children’s 
Hour. 

I hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 
The  patter  of  little  feet, 

The  sound  of  a door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

15 


From  my  study  I see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 

And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A whisper,  and  then  a silence  : 

Yet  1 know  by  their  merry  eyes 
They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 

A sudden  raid  from  the  hall  1 


226 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall  ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O’er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair  ; 

If  I try  to  escape,  they  surround  me  ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine  ! 

Do  you  think,  0 blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  mustache  as  I am 
Is  not  a match  for  you  all  ! 

I have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 

But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 
In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a day, 

Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 
And  moulder  in  dust  away  ! 


ENCELADUS. 

Under  Mount  Etna  he  lies, 

It  is  slumber,  it  is  not  death  ; 

For  he  struggles  at  times  to  arise, 

And  above  him  the  lurid  skies 
Are  hot  with  his  fiery  breath. 

The  crags  are  piled  on  his  breast, 

The  earth  is  heaped  on  his  head  ; 

But  the  groans  of  his  wild  unrest, 

Though  smothered  and  half  suppressed, 
Are  heard,  and  he  is  not  dead. 

And  the  nations  far  away 

Are  watching  with  eager  eyes  ; 

They  talk  together  and  say, 

“To-morrow,  perhaps  to-day, 

Enceladus  will  arise  ! ” 

And  the  old  gods,  the  austere 
Oppressors  in  their  strength, 

Stand  aghast  and  white  with  fear 

At  the  ominous  sounds  they  hear, 

And  tremble,  and  mutter,  “ At  length ! ” 

Ah  me  ! for  the  land  that  is  sown 
With  the  harvest  of  despair  ! 

Where  the  burning  cinders,  blown 


From  the  lips  of  the  overthrown 
Enceladus,  fill  the  air. 

Where  ashes  are  heaped  in  drifts 
Over  vineyard  and  field  and  town, 
Whenever  he  starts  and  lifts 
His  head  through  the  blackened  rifts 
Of  the  crags  that  keep  him  down. 

See,  see  ! the  red  light  shines  ! 

’T  is  the  glare  of  his  awful  eyes  ! 

And  the  storm- wind  shouts  through  the 
pines 

Of  Alps  and  of  Apennines 
“ Enceladus,  arise  I ” 


THE  CUMBERLAND. 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 
On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of- 
war  ; 

And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the 
bay 

The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 

Or  a bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 
A little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 

And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our 
foes 

Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavity  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort ; 

Then  comes  a puff  of  smoke  from  her 
guns. 

And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 

With  fiery  breath, 

From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 
Defiance  back  in  a full  broadside  ! 

As  hail  rebounds  from  a roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster’s  hide. 

“ Strike  your  flag  ! ” the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 

“ Never  ! ” our  gallant  Morris  replies  ; 

“ It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield ! ’ 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 


SOMETHING  LEFT  UNDONE. 


227 


Then,  like  a kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a wrack, 
With  a sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon’s  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 
Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast 
head. 

Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day  ! 

Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a whisper  of  prayer, 

Or  a dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho  ! brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the 
seas  ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream  ; 
Ho  ! brave  land  ! with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 

Shall  be  one  again, 

And  without  a seam  ! 


SNOW-FLAKES. 

Out  of  the  bosom  of  the  Air, 

Out  of  the  cloud-folds  of  her  garments 
shaken, 

Over  the  woodlands  brown  and  bare, 
Over  the  harvest- fields  forsaken, 
Silent,  and  soft,  and  slow 
Descends  the  snow. 

Even  as  our  cloudy  fancies  take 
Suddenly  shape  in  some  divine  expres- 
sion, 

Even  as  the  troubled  heart  doth  make 
In  the  white  countenance  confession, 
The  troubled  sky  reveals 
The  grief  it  feels. 

This  is  the  poem  of  the  air, 

Slowly  in  silent  syllables  recorded  ; 

This  is  the  secret  of  despair, 

Long  in  its  cloudy  bosom  hoarded, 
Now  whispered  and  revealed 
To  wood  and  field. 


A DAY  OF  SUNSHINE. 

0 gift  of  God  ! O perfect  day  : 
Whereon  shall  no  man  work,  but  play  ; 
Whereon  it  is  enough  for  me, 

Not  to  be  doing,  but  to  be  ! 


I Through  every  fibre  of  my  brain, 
Through  every  nerve,  through  every  vein, 
I feel  the  electric  thrill,  the  touch 
Of  life,  that  seems  almost  too  much. 

I hear  the  wind  among  the  trees 
Playing  celestial  symphonies  ; 

I I see  the  branches  downward  bent, 

Like  keys  of  some  great  instrument. 

And  over  me  unrolls  on  high 
The  splendid  scenery  of  the  sky, 

Where  through  a sapphire  sea  the  sun 
Sails  like  a golden  galleon, 

Towards  yonder  cloud-land  in  the  West, 
Towards  yonder  Islands  of  the  Blest, 
Whose  steep  sierra  far  uplifts 
Its  craggy  summits  white  with  drifts. 

Blow,  winds  ! and  waft  through  all  the 
rooms 

The  snow-flakes  of  the  cherry-blooms  ! 
Blow,  winds  ! and  bend  within  my  reach 
The  fiery  blossoms  of  the  peach  ! 

0 Life  and  Love  ! 0 happy  throng 

Of  thoughts,  whose  only  speech  is  song  ! 
0 heart  of  man  ! canst  thou  not  be 
Blithe  as  the  air  is,  and  as  free  ? 


SOMETHING  LEFT  UNDONE. 

Labor  with  what  zeal  we  will, 
Something  still  remains  undone, 

Something  uncompleted  still 
Waits  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

By  the  bedside,  on  the  stair, 

At  the  threshold,  near  the  gates, 

With  its  menace  or  its  prayer, 

Like  a mendicant  it  waits  ; 

Waits,  and  will  not  go  away  ; 

Waits,  and  will  not  be  gainsaid  ; 

By  the  cares  of  yesterday 

Each  to-day  is  heavier  made  ; 

Till  at  length  the  burden  seems 
Greater  than  our  strength  can  bear, 

Heavy  as  the  weight  of  dreams, 
Pressing  on  us  everywhere. 

And  we  stand  from  day  to  day, 

Like  the  dwarfs  of  times  gone  by, 

Who,  as  Northern  legends  say, 

On  their  shoulders  held  the  sky. 


228 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


WEARINESS. 

O little  feet  ! that  such  long  years 
Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and  fears, 
Must  ache  and  bleed  beneath  your 
load  ; 

I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn 
Where  toil  shall  cease  and  rest  begin, 
Ain  weary,  thinking  of  your  road  ! 

0 little  hands  ! that,  weak  or  strong, 
Have  still  to  serve  or  rule  so  long, 

Have  still  so  long  to  give  or  ask  ; 

I,  who  so  much  with  book  and  pen 
Have  toiled  among  my  fellow-men. 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  task. 


O little  hearts  ! that  throb  and  beat 
With  such  impatient,  feverish  heat, 
Such  limitless  and  strong  desires  ; 
Mine  that  so  long  has  glowed  and 
burned, 

With  passions  into  ashes  turned 
Now  covers  and  conceals  its  fires. 

O little  souls  ! as  pure  and  white 
And  crystalline  as  rays  of  light 
Direct  from  heaven,  their  source  di- 
vine ; 

Refracted  through  the  mist  of  years, 
How  red  my  setting  sun  appears, 

How  lurid  looks  this  soul  of  mine  ! 


FLIGHT  THE  THIRD. 


FATA  MORGANA. 

0 sweet  illusions  of  Song, 

That  tempt  me  everywhere, 

In  the  lonely  fields,  and  the  throng 
Of  the  crowded  thoroughfare  ! 

1 approach,  and  ye  vanish  away, 

I grasp  you,  and  ye  are  gone  ; 

But  ever  by  night  and  by  day. 

The  melody  soundeth  on. 

As  the  weary  traveller  sees 
In  desert  or  prairie  vast, 

Blue  lakes,  overhung  with  trees, 
That  a pleasant  shadow  cast ; 

Fair  towns  with  turrets  high, 

And  shining  roofs  of  gold, 

That  vanish  as  he  draws  nigh. 

Like  mists  together  rolled,  — 

So  I wander  and  wander  along, 

And  forever  before  me  gleams 

The  shining  city  of  song, 

In  the  beautiful  land  of  dreams. 

But  when  I would  enter  the  gate 
Of  that  golden  atmosphere, 

It  is  gone,  and  I wander  and  wait 
For  the  vision  to  reappear. 

THE  HAUNTED  CHAMBER. 

Each  heart  has  its  haunted  chamber, 

Where  the  .silent  moonlight  falls  ! 


On  the  floor  are  mysterious  footsteps, 
There  are  whispers  along  the  walls  ! 

And  mine  at  times  is  haunted 
By  phantoms  of  the  Past, 

As  motionless  as  shadows 
By  the  silent  moonlight  cast. 

A form  sits  by  the  window, 

That  is  not  seen  by  day, 

For  as  soon  as  the  dawn  approaches 
It  vanishes  away. 

It  sits  there  in  the  moonlight, 

Itself  as  pale  and  still, 

And  points  with  its  airy  finger 
Across  the  window-sill. 

Without,  before  the  window. 

There  stands  a gloomy  pine. 

Whose  boughs  wave  upward  and  down- 
ward 

As  wave  these  thoughts  of  mine. 

And  underneath  its  branches 
Is  the  grave  of  a little  child, 

Who  died  upon  life’s  threshold. 

And  never  wept  nor  smiled. 

What  are  ye,  0 pallid  phantoms  ! 

That  haunt  my  troubled  brain  ? 

That  vanish  when  day  approaches, 

| And  at  night  return  again  ? 


THE  CHALLENGE. 


229 


What  are  ye,  0 pallid  phantoms  ! 

But  the  statues  without  breath, 
That  stand  on  the  bridge  overarching 
The  silent  river  of  death  ? 


THE  MEETING. 

After  so  long  an  absence 
At  last  we  meet  again  : 

Does  the  meeting  give  us  pleasure, 

Or  does  it  give  us  pain  ? 

The  tree  of  life  has  been  shaken, 

And  but  few  of  us  linger  now, 

Like  the  Prophet’s  two  or  three  berries 
In  the  top  of  the  uppermost  bough. 

We  cordially  greet  each  other 
In  the  old,  familiar  tone  ; 

And  we  think,  though  we  do  not  say  it, 
How  old  and  gray  he  is  grown  ! 

We  speak  of  a Merry  Christmas 
And  many  a Happy  New  Year  ; 

But  each  in  his  heart  is  thinking 
Of  those  that  are  not  here. 

We  speak  of  friends  and  their  fortunes, 
And  of  what  they  did  and  said, 

Till  the  dead  alone  seem  living. 

And  the  living  alone  seem  dead. 

A*id  at  last  we  hardly  distinguish 
Between  the  ghosts  and  the  guests ; 

And  a mist  and  shadow  of  sadness 
Steals  over  our  merriest  jests. 


VOX  POPULI. 

When  Mazarvan  the  Magician, 
Journeyed  westward  through  Cathay, 

Nothing  heard  he  but  the  praises 
Of  Badoura  on  his  way. 

But  the  lessening  rumor  ended 
When  he  came  to  Khaledan, 

There  the  folk  were  talking  only 
Of  Prince  Camaralzaman. 

So  it  happens  with  the  poets  : 

Every  province  hath  its  own  ; 

Camaralzaman  is  famous 

Where  Badoura  is  unknown. 


THE  CASTLE-BUILDER. 

A gentle  boy,  with  soft  and  silken 
locks, 

A dreamy  boy,  with  brown  and  tender 
eyes, 

A castle-builder,  with  his  wooden 
blocks, 

And  towers  that  touch  imaginary 
skies. 

A fearless  rider  on  his  father’s  knee, 

An  eager  listener  unto  stories  told 

At  the  Round  Table  of  the  nursery, 

Of  heroes  and  adventures  manifold. 

There  will  be  other  towers  for  thee  to 
build  ; 

There  will  be  other  steeds  for  thee  to 
ride ; 

There  will  be  other  legends,  and  all 
filled 

With  greater  marvels  and  more 
glorified. 

Build  on,  and  make  thy  castles  high 
and  fair, 

Rising  and  reaching  upward  to  the 
skies ; 

Listen  to  voices  in  the  upper  air, 

Nor  lose  thy  simple  faith  in  mysteries. 

CHANGED. 

From  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
Where  of  old  the  mile-stone  stood, 
Now  a stranger,  looking  down 
I behold  the  shadowy  crown 
Of  the  dark  and  haunted  wTood. 

Is  it  changed,  or  am  I changed  ? 

Ah  ! the  oaks  are  fresh  and  green, 
But  the  friends  with  whom  I ranged 
Through  their  thickets  are  estranged 
By  the  years  that  intervene. 

Bright  as  ever  flows  the  sea, 

Bright  as  ever  shines  the  sun, 

But  alas  ! they  seem  to  me  ^ 

Not  the  sun  that  used  to  be, 

Not  the  tides  that  used  to  ran. 


THE  CHALLENGE. 

I have  a vague  remembrance 
Of  a story,  that  is  told 
In  some  ancient  Spanish  legend 
Or  chronicle  of  old. 


230 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


It  was  when  brave  King  Sanchez 
Was  before  Zamora  slain, 

And  his  great  besieging  army 
Lay  encamped  upon  the  plain. 

Don  Diego  de  Ordonez 

Sallied  forth  in  front  of  all, 

And  shouted  loud  his  challenge 
To  the  warders  on  the  wall. 

All  the  people  of  Zamora, 

Both  the  born  and  the  unborn, 

As  traitors  did  he  challenge 
With  taunting  words  of  scorn. 

The  living,  in  their  houses, 

And  in  their  graves,  the  dead  ! 

And  the  waters  of  their  rivers, 

And  their  wine,  and  oil,  and  bread  ! 

There  is  a greater  army, 

That  besets  us  round  with  strife, 

A starving,  numberless  army, 

At  all  the  gates  of  life. 

The  poverty-stricken  millions 

Who  challenge  our  wine  and  bread, 
And  impeach  us  all  as  traitors, 

Both  the  living  and  the  dead. 

And  whenever  I sit  at  the  banquet, 
Where  the  feast  and  song  are  high, 
Amid  the  mirth  and  the  music 
I can  hear  that  fearful  cry. 

And  hollow  and  haggard  faces 
Look  into  the  lighted  hall. 

And  wasted  hands  are  extended 
To  catch  the  crumbs  that  fall. 

For  within  there  is  light  and  plenty, 
And  odors  fill  the  air  ; 

But  without  there  is  cold  and  darkness, 
And  hunger  and  despair. 

And  there  in  the  camp  of  famine, 

In  wind  and  cold  and  rain, 

Christ,  the  great  Lord  of  the  army, 

Lies  dead  upon  the  plain  ! 


THE  BROOK  AND  THE  WAVE. 

The  brooklet  came  from  the  mountain, 
As  sang  the  bard  of  old, 

Running  with  feet  of  silver 
Over  the  sands  of  gold  ! 


Far  away  in  the  briny  ocean 
There  rolled  a turbulent  wave, 

Now  singing  along  the  sea-beach, 

Now  howling  along  the  cave. 

And  the  brooklet  has  found  the  billow, 
Though  they  flowed  so  far  apart, 

And  has  filled  with  its  freshness  and 
sweetness 

That  turbulent,  bitter  heart  ! 


FROM  THE  SPANISH  CANCIONE- 
ROS. 

1. 

Eyes  so  tristful,  eyes  so  tristful, 
Heart  so  full  of  care  and  cumber, 

I was  lapped  in  rest  and  slumber, 

Ye  have  made  me  wakeful,  wistful ! 

In  this  life  of  labor  endless 
Who  shall  comfort  my  distresses  ? 
Querulous  my  soul  and  friendless 
In  its  sorrow  shuns  caresses. 

Ye  have  made  me,  ye  have  made  me 
Querulous  of  you,  that  care  not, 

Eyes  so  tristful,  yet  I dare  not 
Say  to  what  ye  have  betrayed  me. 

2. 

Some  day,  some  day, 

0 troubled  breast, 

Shalt  thou  find  rest. 

If  Love  in  thee 
To  grief  give  birth, 

Six  feet  of  earth 
Can  more  than  he  ; 

There  calm  and  free 
And  unoppressed 
Shalt  thou  find  rest. 

The  un attained 
In  life  at  last, 

When  life  is  passed, 

Shall  all  be  gained  ; 

And  no  more  pained, 

No  more  distressed, 

Shalt  thou  find  rest. 

3. 

Come,  0 Death,  so  silent  flying 
That  unheard  thy  coming  be, 


EPIMETHEUS. 


231 


Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 
Bring  life  back  again  to  me. 

For  thy  sure  approach  perceiving 
In  my  constancy  and  pain 
I new  life  should  win  again, 

Thinking  that  I am  not  living. 

So  to  me,  unconscious  lying, 

All  unknown  thy  coming  be, 

Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 
Bring  life  back  again  to  me. 

Unto  him  who  finds  thee  hateful, 
Death,  thou  art  inhuman  pain  ; 

But  to  me,  who  dying  gain, 

Life  is  but  a task  ungrateful. 

Come,  then,  with  my  wish  complying, 
All  unheard  thy  coming  be, 

Lest  the  sweet  delight  of  dying 
Bring  life  back  again  to  me. 

4. 

Glove  of  black  in  white  hand  bare, 
And  about  her  forehead  pale 
Wound  a thin,  transparent  veil, 
That  doth  not  conceal  her  hair  ; 
Sovereign  attitude  and  air, 

Cheek  and  neck  alike  displayed, 
With  coquettish  charms  arrayed, 
Laughing  eyes  and  fugitive  ; — 

This  is  killing  men  that  live, 

’T  is  not  mourning  for  the  dead. 

AFTERMATH. 

When  the  Summer  fields  are  mown, 
When  the  birds  are  fledged  and  flown, 
And  the  dry  leaves  strew  the  path  ; 
With  the  falling  of  the  snow, 

With  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 

Once  again  the  fields  we  mow 
And  gather  in  the  aftermath. 

Hot  the  sweet,  new  grass  with  flowers 
Is  this  harvesting  of  ours  ; 

Not  the  upland  clover  bloom  ; 

But  the  rowen  mixed  with  weeds, 
Tangled  tufts  from  marsh  and  meads, 
Where  the  poppy  drops  its  seeds 
In  the  silence  and  the  gloom. 

EPIMETHEUS, 

OR  THE  POET’S  AFTERTHOUGHT. 

Have  I dreamed  ? or  was  it  real, 
What  I saw  as  in  a vision. 


When  to  marches  hymeneal 
In  the  land  of  the  Ideal 

Moved  my  thought  o’er  Fields  Elysian  ? 

What  ! are  these  the  guests  whose  glances 
Seemed  like  sunshine  gleaming  round 
me  ? 

These  the  wild,  bewildering  fancies, 
That  with  dithyrambic  dances 
As  with  magic  circles  bound  me  ? 

Ah  ! how  cold  are  their  caresses  ! 

Pallid  cheeks,  and  haggard  bosoms  ! 
Spectral  gleam  their  snow-white  dresses, 
And  from  loose,  dishevelled  tresses 
Fall  the  hyacinthine  blossoms  ! 

0 my  songs  ! whose  winsome  measures 
Filled  my  heart  with  secret  rapture  ! 
Children  of  my  golden  leisures  ! 

Must  even  your  delights  and  pleasures 
Fade  and  perish  with  the  capture  ? 

Fair  they  seemed,  those  songs  sonorous, 
When  they  came  to  me  unbidden  ; 
Voices  single,  and  in  chorus, 

Like  the  wild  birds  singing  o’er  us 
In  the  dark  of  branches  hidden. 

Disenchantment  ! Disillusion  ! 

Must  each  noble  aspiration 
Come  at  last  to  this  conclusion, 

Jarring  discord,  wild  confusion, 
Lassitude,  renunciation  ? 

Not  with  steeper  fall  nor  faster, 

From  the  sun’s  serene  dominions, 

Not  through  brighter  realms  nor  vaster, 
In  swift  ruin  and  disaster, 

Icarus  fell  with  shattered  pinions  1 

Sweet  Pandora  ! dear  Pandora  ! 

Why  did  mighty  Jove  create  thee 
Coy  as  Thetis,  fair  as  Flora, 

Beautiful  as  young  Aurora, 

If  to  win  thee  is  to  hate  thee  ? 

No,  not  hate  thee  ! for  this  feeling 
Of  unrest  and  long  resistance 
Is  but  passionate  appealing, 

A prophetic  whisper  stealing 
O’er  the  chords  of  our  existence. 

Him  whom  thou  dost  once  enamor, 
Thou,  beloved,  never  leavest ; 

In  life’s  discord,  strife,  and  clamor, 

Still  he  feels  thy  spell  of  glamour  ; 

Him  of  Hope  thou  ne’er  bereavest* 


232 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


Weary  hearts  by  thee  are  lifted, 

Struggling  souls  by  thee  are  strength- 
ened, 

Clouds  of  fear  asunder  rifted, 

Truth  from  falsehood  cleansed  and  sifted, 
Lives,  like  days  in  summer,  length- 
ened ! 

Therefore  art  thou  ever  dearer, 

0 my  Sibyl,  my  deceiver  ! 


TALES  OF  A 

PRELUDE. 

THE  WAYSIDE  INN. 

One  Autumn  night,  in  Sudbury  town, 
Across  the  meadows  bare  and  brown, 
The  windows  of  the  wayside  inn 
Gleamed  red  with  fire-light  through  the 
leaves 

Of  woodbine,  hanging  from  the  eaves 
Their  crimson  curtains  rent  and  thin. 

As  ancient  is  this  hostelry 
As  any  in  the  land  may  "be, 

Built  in  the  old  Colonial  day, 

When  men  lived  in  a grander  way, 

With  ampler  hospitality  ; 

A kind  of  old  Hobgoblin  Hall, 

Now  somewhat  fallen  to  decay, 

With  weather-stains  upon  the  wall, 

And  stairways  worn,  and  crazy  doors, 
And  creaking  and  uneven  floors, 

And  chimneys  huge,  and  tiled  and  tall. 

A region  of  repose  it  seems, 

A place  of  slumber  and  of  dreams, 
Remote  among  the  wooded  hills  ! 

For  there  no  noisy  railway  speeds, 

Its  torch -race  scattering  smoke  and 
gleeds  ; 

But  noon  and  night,  the  panting  teams 
Stop  under  the  great  oaks,  that  throw 
Tangles  of  light  and  shade  below, 

On  roofs  and  doors  and  window-sills. 
Across  the  road  the  barns  display 
Their  lines  of  stalls,  their  mows  of  hay, 
Through  the  wide  doors  the  breezes  blow, 
The  wattled  cocks  strut  to  and  fro, 

And,  half  effaced  by  rain  and  shine, 

The  Red  Horse  prances  on  the  sign. 


For  thou  makest  each  mystery  clearer, 
And  the  unattained  seems  nearer, 

When  thou  fillest  my  heart  with 
fever  ! 

Muse  of  all  the  Gifts  and  Graces  ! 

Though  the  fields  around  us  wither, 
There  are  ampler  realms  and  spaces, 
Where  no  foot  has  left  its  traces  : 

Let  us  turn  and  wander  thither  ! 


Round  this  old-fashioned,  quaint  abode 
Deep  silence  reigned,  save  when  a gust 
Went  rushing  down  the  county  road, 
And  skeletons  of  leaves,  and  dust, 

A moment  quickened  by  its  breath, 
Shuddered  and  danced  their  dance  of 
death, 

And  through  the  ancient  oaks  o’erhead 
Mysterious  voices  moaned  and  fled. 

But  from  the  parlor  of  the  inn 
A pleasant  murmur  smote  the  ear, 

Like  water  rushing  through  a weir  : 

Oft  interrupted  by  the  din 
Of  laughter  and  of  loud  applause, 

And,  in  each  intervening  pause, 

The  music  of  a violin. 

The  fire-light,  shedding  over  all 
The  splendor  of  its  ruddy  glow, 

Filled  the  whole  parlor  large  and  low  ; 
It  gleamed  on  wainscot  and  on  wall, 

It  touched  with  more  than  wonted  grace 
Fair  Princess  Mary’s  pictured  face  ; 

It  bronzed  the  rafters  overhead, 

On  the  old  spinet’s  ivory  keys 
It  played  inaudible  melodies, 

It  crowned  the  sombre  clock  with  flame, 
The  hands,  the  hours,  the  maker’s  name, 
And  painted  with  a livelier  red 
The  Landlord’s  coat-of-arms  again  ; 

And,  flashing  on  the  window-pane, 
Emblazoned  with  its  light  and  shade 
The  jovial  rhymes,  that  still  remain, 
Writ  near  a century  ago, 

Bv  the  great  Major  Molineaux, 

Whom  Hawihorne  has  immortal  made. 

Before  the  blazing  fire  of  wood 
Erect  the  rapt  musician  stood  ; 


WAYSIDE  INN. 


THE  WAYSIDE  INN. 


233 


And  ever  and  anon  lie  bent 
His  head  upon  his  instrument, 

And  seemed  to  listen,  till  he  caught 
Confessions  of  its  secret  thought,  — 

The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  lament, 

The  exultation  and  the  pain  ; 

Then,  by  the  magic  of  his  art, 

He  soothed  the  throbbings  of  its  heart, 
And  lulled  it  into  peace  again. 

Around  the  fireside  at  their  ease 
There  sat  a group  of  friends,  entranced 
With  the  delicious  melodies  ; 

Who  from  the  far-off  noisy  town 
Had  to  the  wayside  inn  come  down, 

To  rest  beneath  its  old  oak-trees. 

The  fire-light  on  their  faces  glanced, 
Their  shadows  on  the  wainscot  danced, 
And,  though  of  different  lands  and 
speech, 

Each  had  his*  tale  to  tell,  and  each 
Was  anxious  to  be  pleased  and  please. 
And  while  the  sweet  musician  plays, 

Let  me  in  outline  sketch  them  all, 
Perchance  uncouthly  as  the  blaze 
With  its  uncertain  touch  portrays 
Their  shadowy  semblance  on  the  wall. 

But  first  the  Landlord  will  I trace  ; 
Grave  in  his  aspect  and  attire ; 

A man  of  ancient  pedigree, 

A Justice  of  the  Peace  was  he. 

Known  in  all  Sudbury  as  “The  Squire.” 
Proud  was  he  of  his  name  and  race, 

Of  old  Sir  William  and  Sir  Hugh, 

And  in  the  parlor,  full  in  view, 

His  coat-of-arms,  well  framed  and  glazed, 
Upon  the  wall  in  colors  blazed ; 

He  beareth  gules  upon  his  shield, 

A chevron  argent  in  the  field, 

With  three  wolfs  heads,  and  for  the  crest 
A Wyvern  part-per- pale  'addressed 
U pon  a helmet  barred  ; below 
The  scroll  reads,  “By  the  name  of 
Howe.” 

And  over  this,  no  longer  bright, 

Though  glimmering  with  a latent  light, 
Was  hung  the  sword  his  grandsire  bore 
In  the  rebellious  days  of  yore, 

Down  there  at  Concord  in  the  fight. 

A youth  was  there,  of  quiet  ways, 

A Student  of  old  books  and  days, 

To  whom  all  tongues  and  lands  were 
known 

And  yet  a lover  of  his  own  ; 

With  many  a social  virtue  graced, 


And  yet  a friend  of  solitude  ; 

A man  of  such  a genial  mood 
The  heart  of  all  things  he  embraced, 
And  yet  of  such  fastidious  taste, 

He  never  found  the  best  too  good. 

Books  were  his  passion  and  delight, 

And  in  his  upper  loom  at  home 
Stood  many  a rare  and  sumptuous  tome, 
In  vellum  bound,  with  gold  bediglit, 
Great  volumes  garmented  in  white, 
Recalling  Florence,  Pisa,  Rome. 

He  loved  the  twilight  that  surrounds 
The  border-land  of  old  romance  ; 

Where  glitter  hauberk,  helm,  and  lance, 
And  banner  waves,  and  trumpet  sounds, 
And  ladies  ride  with  hawk  on  wrist, 
And  mighty  warriors  sweep  along. 
Magnified  by  the  purple  mist, 

The  dusk  of  centuries  and  of  song. 

The  chronicles  of  Charlemagne, 

Of  Merlin  and  the  Mort  d’Arthure, 
Mingled  together  in  his  brain 
With  tales  of  Flores  and  Blanchefleur, 
Sir  Ferumbras,  Sir  Eglamour, 

Sir  Launcelot,  Sir  Morgadour, 

Sir  Guy,  Sir  Bevis,  Sir  Gawain. 

A young  Sicilian,  too,  was  there  ; 

In  sight  of  Etna  born  and  bred, 

Some  breath  of  its  volcanic  air 
Was  glowing  in  his  heart  and  brain, 
And,  being  rebellious  to  his  liege, 

After  Palermo’s  fatal  siege, 

Across  the  western  seas  he  fled, 

In  good  King  Bomba’s  happy  reign. 

His  face  was  like  a summer  night, 

All  flooded  with  a dusky  light  ; 

His  hands  were  small ; his  teeth  shone 
white 

As  sea-shells,  when  he  smiled  or  spoke  ; 
His  sinews  supple  and  strong  as  oak  ; 
Clean  shaven  was  he  as  a priest, 

Who  at  the  mass  on  Sunday  sings, 

Save  that  upon  his  upper  lip 
His  beard,  a good  palm’s  length  at 
least, 

Level  and  pointed  at  the  tip, 

Shot  sideways,  like  a swallow’s  wings. 
The  poets  read  he  o’er  and  o’er, 

And  most  of  all  the  Immortal  Four 
Of  Italy  ; and  next  to  those, 

The  story-telling  bard  of  prose, 

Who  wrote  the  joyous  Tuscan  tales 
Of  the  Decameron,  that  make 
Fiesole’s  green  hills  and  vales 
Remembered  for  Boccaccio’s  sake. 

Much  too  of  music  was  his  thought ; 


234 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


The  melodies  and  measures  fraught 
With  sunshine  and  the  open  air, 

Of  vineyards  and  the  singing  sea 
Of  his  beloved  Sicily  ; 

And  much  it  pleased  him  to  peruse 
The  songs  of  the  Sicilian  muse,  — 
Bucolic  songs  by  Meli  sung 
In  the  familiar  peasant  tongue, 

That  made  men  say,  “ Behold  ! once 
more 

The  pitying  gods  to  earth  restore 
Theocritus  of  Syracuse  ! ” 

A Spanish  Jew  from  Alicant 

With  aspect  grand  and  grave  was  there  ; 

Tender  of  silks  and  fabrics  rare, 

And  attar  of  rose  from  the  Levant. 

Like  an  old  Patriarch  he  appeared, 
Abraham  or  Isaac,  or  at  least 
Some  later  Prophet  or  High -Priest  ; 
With  lustrous  eyes,  and  olive  skin, 

And,  wildly  tossed  from  cheeks  and 
chin, 

The  tumbling  cataract  of  his  beard. 

His  garments  breathed  a spicy  scent 
Of  cinnamon  and  sandal  blent, 

Like  the  soft  aromatic  gales 
That  meet  the  mariner,  who  sails 
Through  the  Moluccas,  and  the  seas 
That  wash  the  shores  of  Celebes. 

All  stories  that  recorded  are 
By  Pierre  Alphonse  he  knew  by  heart, 
And  it  was  rumored  he  could  say 
The  Parables  of  Sandabar, 

And  all  the  Fables  of  Pilpay, 

Or  if  not  all,  the  greater  part  ! 

Well  versed  was  he  in  Hebrew  books, 
Talmud  and  Targum,  and  the  lore 
Of  Kabala  ; and  evermore 
There  was  a mystery  in  his  looks  ; 

His  eyes  seemed  gazing  far  away. 

As  if  in  vision  or  in  trance 
He  heard  the  solemn  sack  but  play, 

And  saw  the  Jewish  maidens  dance. 

A Theologian,  from  the  school 
Of  Cambridge  on  the  Charles,  was  there  ; 
Skilful  alike  with  tongue  and  pen, 

He  preached  to  all  men  everywhere 
The  Gospel  of  the  Golden  Pule, 

The  New  Commandment  given  to  men, 
Thinking  the  deed,  and  not  the  creed, 
Would  help  us  in  our  utmost  need. 

With  reverent  feet  the  earth  he  trod, 
Nor  banished  nature  from  his  plan, 

But  studied  still  with  deep  research 
To  build  the  Universal  Church, 


Lofty  as  in  the  love  of  God, 

And  ample  as  the  wants  of  man. 

A Poet,  too,  was  there,  whose  verse 
Was  tender,  musical,  and  terse  ; 

The  inspiration,  the  delight, 

The  gleam,  the  glory,  the  swift  flight. 

Of  thoughts  so  sudden,  that  they  seem 
The  revelations  of  a dream, 

All  these  were  his  ; but  with  them  came 
No  envy  of  another’s  fame  ; 

He  did  not  find  his  sleep  less  sweet 
For  music  in  some  neighboring  street, 
Nor  rustling  hear  in  every  breeze 
The  laurels  of  Miltiades. 

Honor  and  blessings  on  his  head 
While  living,  good  report  when  dead, 
Who,  not  too  eager  for  renown, 

Accepts,  but  does  not  clutch,  the  crown ! 

Last  the  Musician,  as  he  stood 
Illumined  by  that  fire  of  wood  ; 
Fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  his  aspect  blithe, 
His  figure  tall  and  straight  and  lithe, 
And  every  feature  of  his  face 
Revealing  his  Norwegian  race  ; 

A radiance,  streaming  from  within, 
Around  his  eyes  and  forehead  beamed. 
The  Angel  with  the  violin, 

Painted  by  Raphael,  he  seemed. 

He  lived  in  that  ideal  world 
Whose  language  is  not  speech,  but  song  ; 
Around  him  evermore  the  throng 
Of  elves  and  sprites  their  dances  whirled  ; 
The  Stromkarl  sang,  the  cataract  hurled 
Its  headlong  waters  from  the  height  ; 
And  mingled  in  the  wild  delight 
The  scream  of  sea-birds  in  their  flight, 
The  rumor  of  the  forest  trees, 

The  plunge  of  the  implacable  seas, 

The  tumult  of  the  wind  at  night, 

Voices  of  eld,  like  trumpets  blowing. 

Old  ballads,  and  wild  melodies 
Through  mist  and  darkness  pouring 
forth, 

Like  Elivagar’s  river  flowing 
Out  of  the  glaciers  of  the  North. 

The  instrument  on  which  he  played 
Was  in  Cremona’s  workshops  made. 

By  a great  master  of  the  past, 

Ere  yet  was  lost  the  art  divine  ; 
Fashioned  of  maple  and  of  pine, 

That  in  Tyrolian  forests  vast 

Had  rocked  and  wrestled  with  the  blast : 

Exquisite  was  it  in  design, 

Perfect  in  each  minutest  part, 


PAUL  REVERE’S  RIDE. 


235 


A marvel  of  the  lutist’s  art ; 

And  in  its  hollow  chamber,  thus, 

The  maker  from  whose  hands  it  came 
Had  written  his  unrivalled  name,  — 

“ Antonius  Stradivarius.” 

And  when  he  played,  the  atmosphere 
Was  filled  with  magic,  and  the  ear 
Caught  echoes  of  that  Harp  of  Gold, 
Whose  music  had  so  weird  a sound, 

The  hunted  stag  forgot  to  hound, 

The  leaping  rivulet  backward  rolled, 

The  birds  came  down  from  bush  and 
tree, 

The  dead  came  from  beneath  the  sea, 
The  maiden  to  the  harper’s  knee  ! 

The  music  ceased ; the  applause  was 
loud, 

The  pleased  musician  smiled  and  bowed  ; 
The  wood-fire  clapped  its  hands  of  flame. 
The  shadows  on  the  wainscot  stirred, 
And  from  the  harpsichord  there  came 
A ghostly  murmur  of  acclaim, 

A sound  like  that  sent  down  at  night 
By  birds  of  passage  in  their  flight, 

From  the  remotest  distance  heard. 

Then  silence  followed  ; then  began 
A clamor  for  the  Landlord’s  tale,  — 

The  story  promised  them  of  old, 

They  said,  but  always  left  untold  ; 

And  he,  although  a bashful  man, 

And  all  his  courage  seemed  to  fail, 
Finding  excuse  of  no  avail, 

Yielded  ; and  thus  the  story  ran. 

THK  LANDLORD'S  TALE. 

PAUL  REVERE’S  RIDE. 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall 
hear 

Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy- 
five  ; 

Hardly  a man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and 
year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  “ If  the  British 
march 

By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a signal 
light,  - 


One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea  ; 

And  I on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and 
farm, 

For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to 
arm.” 

Then  he  said,  “ Good  night  ! ” and  with 
muffled  oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 
Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings 
lay 

The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war  ; 

A phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and 
spar 

Across  the  moon  like  a prison  bar, 

And  a huge  black  hulk,  that  was 
magnified 

By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley 
and  street, 

Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of 
feet, 

And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grena- 
diers, 

Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the 
shore. 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old 
North  Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy 
tread, 

To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 

And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their 
perch 

On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him 
made 

Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade,  — 
By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look 
down 

A moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 

And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the 
dead, 

In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 
Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 
That  he  could  hear,  like  a sentinel’s 
tread. 


236 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 
Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  “All  is  well ! ” 
A moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 
Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the 
secret  dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead  ; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 
On  a shadowy  something  far  away, 
Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the 
bay,  — 

A line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 
On  the  rising  tide,  like  a bridge  of 
boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and 
• ride, 

Booted  and  spurred,  with  a heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul 
Revere. 

Now  he  patted  his  horse’s  side, 

Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and 
near, 

Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle- 
girth  ; 

But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager 
search 

The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North 
Church, 

As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and 
still. 

And  lo  ! as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry’s 
height 

A glimmer,  and  then  a gleam  of  light  ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he 
turns, 

But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his 
sight 

A second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns  ! 

A hurry  of  hoofs  in  a village  street, 

A shape  in  the  moonlight,  a bulk  in  the 
dark, 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  pass- 
ing, a spark 

Struck  out  by  a steed  flying  fearless 
and  fleet : 

That  was  all  ! And  yet,  through  the 
gloom  and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  a nation  was  riding  that 
night ; 

And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed, 
in  his  flight, 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its 
heat. 


He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted 
the  steep, 

And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad 
and  deep, 

Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides ; 
And  under  the  alders,  that  skirt  its 
edge, 

Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on 
the  ledge, 

Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he 
rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 
When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Med- 
ford town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer’s  dog, 
And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 

That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 
Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 
And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank 
and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 
At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look 
upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord 
town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 
And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning 
breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 
Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to 
fall, 

Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead. 
Pierced  by  a British  musket-ball. 

You  know  the  rest.  In  the  books  you 
have  read, 

How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and 
fled,  — 

How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for 
ball, 

From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard 
wall, 

Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 


THE  FALCON  OF  SER  FEDERIGO. 


237 


So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere  ; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry 
of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  — 

A cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 

A voice  in  the  darkness,  a knock  at  the 
door, 

And  a word  that  shall  echo  forevermore  ! 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the 
Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and 
need, 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to 
hear 

The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul 
Revere. 


INTERLUDE. 

The  Landlord  ended  thus  his  tale, 

Then  rising  took  down  from  its  nail 
The  sword  that  hung  there,  dim  with 
dust, 

And  cleaving  to  its  sheath  with  rust, 
And  said,  “ This  sword  was  in  the 
fight.” 

The  Poet  seized  it,  and  exclaimed, 

“ It  is  the  sword  of  a good  knight, 
Though  homespun  was  his  coat-of-mail ; 
What  matter  if  it  be  not  named 
Joyeuse,  Colada,  Durindale, 

Excalibar,  or  Aroundight, 

Or  other  name  the  books  record  ? 

Your  ancestor,  who  bore  this  sword 
As  Colonel  of  the  Volunteers, 

Mounted  upon  his  old  gray  mare, 

Seen  here  and  there  and  everywhere, 

To  me  a grander  shape  appears 
Than  old  Sir  William,  or  what  not, 
Clinking  about  in  foreign  lands 
With  iron  gauntlets  on  his  hands, 

And  on  his  head  an  iron  pot  ! ” 

All  laughed  ; the  Landlord’s  face  grew 
red 

As  his  escutcheon  on  the  wall  ; 

He  could  not  comprehend  at  all 
The  drift  of  what  the  Poet  said  ; 

For  those  who  had  been  longest  dead 
Were  always  greatest  in  his  eyes  ; 

And  he  was  speechless  with  surprise 
To  see  Sir  William’s  plumed  head 
Brought  to  a level  with  the  rest, 

And  made  the  subject  of  a jest. 


And  this  perceiving,  to  appease 
The  Landlord's  wrath,  the  others’  fears, 
The  Student  said,  with  careless  ease, 

“ The  ladies  and  the  cavaliers, 

The  arms,  the  loves,  the  courtesies, 

The  deeds  of  high  emprise,  I sing  ! 

Thus  Ariosto  says,  in  words 
That  have  the  stately  stride  and  ring 
Of  armed  knights  and  clashing  swords. 
Now  listen  to  the  tale  I bring  ; 

Listen  ! though  not  to  me  belong 
The  flowing  draperies  of  his  song, 

The  words  that  rouse,  the  voice  that 
charms. 

The  Landlord’s  tale  was  one  of  arms, 
Only  a tale  of  love  is  mine, 

Blending  the  human  and  divine, 

A tale  of  the  Decameron,  told 
In  Palmieri’s  garden  old, 

By  Fiametta,  laurel-crowned, 

While  her  companions  lay  around, 

And  heard  the  intermingled  sound 
Of  airs  that  on  their  errands  sped, 

And  wild  birds  gossiping  overhead, 

And  lisp  of  leaves,  and  fountain’s  fall, 
And  her  own  voice  more  sweet  than 
all, 

Telling  the  tale,  which,  wanting  these, 
Perchance  may  lose  its  power  to  please.” 


THE  STUDENT’S  TALE. 

THE  FALCON  OF  SER  FEDERIGO. 

One  summer  morning,  when  the  sun 
was  hot, 

Weary  with  labor  in  his  garden-plot, 

On  a rude  bench  beneath  his  cottage 
eaves, 

Ser  Federigo  sat  among  the  leaves 

Of  a huge  vine,  that,  with  its  arms  out- 
spread, 

Hung  its  delicious  clusters  overhead. 

Below  him,  through  the  lovely  valley, 
flowed 

The  river  Arno,  like  a winding  road, 

And  from  its  banks  were  lifted  high  in 
air 

The  spires  and  roofs  of  Florence  called 
the  Fair ; 

To  him  a marble  tomb,  that  rose  above 

His  wasted  fortunes  and  his  buried  love. 

For  there,  in  banquet  and  in  tourna- 
ment, 

His  wealth  had  lavished  been,  his  sub- 
stance spent, 


238 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


To  woo  and  lose,  since  ill  his  wooing 
sped, 

Monna  Giovanna,  who  his  rival  wed, 
Yet  ever  in  his  fancy  reigned  supreme, 
The  ideal  woman  of  a young  man’s 
dream. 

Then  he  withdrew,  in  poverty  and  pain, 
To  this  small  farm,  the  last  of  his  do- 
main, 

His  only  comfort  and  his  only  care 
To  prune  his  vines,  and  plant  the  fig 
and  pear  ; 

His  only  forester  and  only  guest 
His  falcon,  faithful  to  him,  when  the 
rest, 

Whose  willing  hands  had  found  so  light 
of  yore 

The  brazen  knocker  of  his  palace  door, 
Had  now  no  strength  to  lift  the  wooden 
latch, 

That  entrance  gave  beneath  a roof  of 
thatch. 

Companion  of  his  solitary  ways, 
Purveyor  of  his  feasts  on  holidays, 

On  him  this  melancholy  man  bestowed 
The  love  with  which  his  nature  over- 
flowed. 

And  so  the  empty-handed  years  went 
round, 

Vacant,  though  voiceful  with  prophetic 
sound, 

And  so,  that  summer  morn,  he  sat  and 
mused 

With  folded,  patient  hands,  as  he  was 
used, 

And  dreamily  before  his  half-closed  sight 
Floated  the  vision  of  his  lost  delight. 
Beside  him,  motionless,  the  drowsy 
bird 

Dreamed  of  the  chase,  and  in  his  slum- 
ber heard 

The  sudden,  scythe-like  sweep  of  wings, 
that  dare 

The  headlong  plunge  thro’  eddying  gulfs 
of  air, 

Then,  starting  broad  awake  upon  his 
perch, 

Tinkled  his  bells,  like  mass-bells  in  a 
church, 

And,  looking  at  his  master,  seemed  to 
say, 

“ Ser  Federigo,  shall  we  hunt  to-day  ? ” 

Ser  Federigo  thought  not  of  the  chase  ; 
The  tender  vision  of  her  lovely  face, 


I will  not  say  he  seems  to  see,  he  sees 
In  the  leaf-shadows  of  the  trellises, 
Herself,  yet  not  herself ; a lovely  chil  i 
With  flowing  tresses,  and  eyes  wide  and 
wild, 

Coming  undaunted  up  the  garden  walk, 
And  looking  not  at  him,  but  at  the 
hawk. 

“ Beautiful  falcon  ! ” said  he,  “would 
that  I 

Might  hold  thee  on  my  wrist,  or  see 
thee  fly  ! ” 

The  voice  was  hers,  and  made  strange 
echoes  start 

Through  all  the  haunted  chambers  of 
his  heart, 

As  an  seolian  harp  through  gusty  doors 
Of  some  old  ruin  its  wild  music  pours. 

“ Who  is  thy  mother,  my  fair  boy  ?”  he 
said, 

His  hand  laid  softly  on  that  shining 
head. 

“ Monna  Giovanna.  Will  you  let  me 
stay 

A little  while,  and  with  your  falcon 
play  ? 

We  live  there,  just  beyond  your  garden 
wall, 

In  the  great  house  behind  the  poplars 
tall.” 

So  he  spake  on  ; and  Federigo  heard 
As  from  afar  each  softly  uttered  word, 
And  drifted  onward  through  the  golden 
gleams 

And  shadows  of  the  misty  sea  of  dreams, 
As  mariners  becalmed  through  vapors 
drift, 

And  feel  the  sea  beneath  them  sink  and 
lift, 

And  hear  far  off*  the  mournful  breakers 
roar, 

And  voices  calling  faintly  from  the 
shore  ! 

Then,  waking  from  his  pleasant  reveries, 
He  took  the  little  boy  upon  his  knees, 
And  told  him  stories  of  his  gallant  bird, 
Till  in  their  friendship  he  became  a 
third. 

Monna  Giovanna,  -widowed  in  her  prime, 
Had  come  with  friends  to  pass  the  sum- 
mer time 

In  her  grand  villa,  half-way  up  the  hill, 
O’erlooking  Florence,  but  retired  and 
still  ; 


THE  FALCON  OF  SER  FEDERIGO. 


239 


With  iron  gates,  that  opened  through 
long  lines 

Of  sacred  ilex  and  centennial  pines, 

And  terraced  gardens,  and  broad  steps 
of  stone, 

And  sylvan  deities,  with  moss  o’ergrown, 
And  fountains  palpitating  in  the  heat. 
And  all  Yal  d’Arno  stretched  beneath 
its  feet. 

Here  in  seclusion,  as  a widow  may, 

The  lovely  lady  whiled  the  hours  away, 
Pacing  in  sable  robes  the  statued  hall, 
Herself  the  stateliest  statue  among  all, 
And  seeing  more  and  more,  with  secret 
joy, 

Her  husband  risen  and  living  in  her  boy, 
Till  the  lost  sense  of  life  returned  again, 
Not  as  delight,  but  as  relief  from  pain. 
Meanwhile  the  boy,  rejoicing  in  his 
strength, 

Stormed  down  the  terraces  from  length 
to  length  ; 

The  screaming  peacock  chased  in  hot 
pursuit, 

And  climbed  the  garden  trellises  for  fruit. 
But  his  chief  pastime  was  to  watch  the 
flight 

Of  a gerfalcon,  soaring  into  sight, 
Beyond  the  trees  that  fringed  the  garden 
wall, 

Then  downward  stooping  at  some  distant 
call  ; 

And  as  he  gazed  full  often  wondered  he 
Who  might  the  master  of  the  falcon  be, 
Until  that  happy  morning,  when  he  found 
Master  and  falcon  in  the  cottage  ground. 

And  now  a shadow  and  a terror  fell 
On  the  great  house,  as  if  a passing-bell 
Tolled  from  the  tower,  and  filled  each 
spacious  room 

With  secret  awe,  and  preternatural 
gloom  ; 

The  petted  boy  grew  ill,  and  day  by  day 
Pined  with  mysterious  malady  away. 

The  mother’s  heart  would  not  be  com- 
forted ; 

Her  darling  seemed  to  her  already  dead, 
And  often,  sitting  by  the  sufferer’s  side, 
“ What  can  I do  to  comfort  thee  ? ” she 
cried. 

At  first  the  silent  lips  made  no  reply, 
But,  moved  at  length  by  her  importu- 
nate cry, 

“ Give  me,”  he  answered,  with  implor- 
ing tone, 

“ Ser  Federigo’s  falcon  for  my  own  ! ” 


No  answer  could  the  astonished  mother 
make  ; 

How  could  she  ask,  e’en  for  her  darling’s 
sake, 

Such  favor  at  a luckless  lover’s  hand, 

Well  knowing  that  to  ask  was  to  com- 
mand ? 

Well  knowing,  what  all  falconers  con- 
fessed, 

In  all  the  land  that  falcon  was  the  best, 

The  master’s  pride  and  passion  and 
delight, 

And  the  sole  pursuivant  of  this  poor 
knight. 

But  yet,  for  her  child’s  sake,  she  could 
no  less 

Than  give  assent,  to  soothe  his  restless- 
ness, 

So  promised,  and  then  promising  to  keep 

Her  promise  sacred,  saw  him  fall  asleep. 

The  morrow  was  a bright  September  morn  ; 

The  earth  was  beautiful  as  if  new-born  ; 

There  was  that  nameless  splendor  every- 
where, 

That  wild  exhilaration  in  the  air, 

Which  makes  the  passers  in  the  city 
street 

Congratulate  each  other  as  they  meet. 

Two  lovely  ladies,  clothed  in  cloak  and 
hood, 

Passed  through  the  garden  gate  into  the 
wood, 

Under  the  lustrous  leaves,  and  through 
the  sheen 

Of  dewy  sunshine  showering  down  be- 
tween. 

The  one,  close-hooded,  had  the  attractive 
grace 

Which  sorrow  sometimes  lends  a woman’s 
face  ; 

Her  dark  eyes  moistened  with  the  mists 
that  roll 

From  the  gulf-stream  of  passion  in  the 
soul  ; 

The  other  with  her  hood  thrown  back, 
her  hair 

Making  a golden  glory  in  the  air, 

Her  cheeks  suffused  with  an  auroral 
blush, 

Her  young  heart  singing  louder  than  the 
thrush. 

So  walked,  that  morn,  through  mingled 
light  and  shade, 

Each  by  the  other’s  presence  lovelier 
made, 


240 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN, 


Monna  Giovanna  and  her  bosom  friend, 
Intent  upon  their  errand  and  its  end. 

They  found  Ser  Federigo  at  his  toil, 

Like  banished  Adam,  delving  in  the  soil ; 
And  when  he  looked  and  these  fair  wo- 
men spied, 

The  garden  suddenly  was  glorified  ; 

His  long-lost  Eden  was  restored  again, 
And  the  strange  river  winding  through 
the  plain 

No  longer  was  the  Arno  to  his  eyes, 

But  the  Euphrates  watering  Paradise  ! 

Monna  Giovanna  raised  her  stately  head, 
And  with  fair  words  of  salutation  said  : 

‘ 4 Ser  F ederigo,  we  come  here  as  friends, 
Hoping  in  this  to  make  some  poor  amends 
For  past  unkindness.  I who  ne’er  before 
Would  even  cross  the  threshold  of  your 
door, 

I who  in  happier  days  such  pride  main- 
tained, 

Refused  your  banquets,  and  your  gifts 
disdained, 

This  morning  come,  a self-invited  guest, 
To  put  your  generous  nature  to  the  test, 
And  breakfast  with  you  under  your  own 
vine.” 

To  which  he  answered  : “ Poor  desert  of 
mine, 

Not  your  unkindness  call  it,  for  if  aught 
Is  good  in  me  of  feeling  or  of  thought, 
From  you  it  comes,  and  this  last  grace 
outweighs 

All  sorrows,  all  regrets  of  other  days.” 

And  after  further  compliment  and  talk, 
Among  the  dahlias  in  the  garden  walk 
He  left  his  guests  ; and  to  his  cottage 
turned, 

And  as  he  entered  for  a moment  yearned 
For  the  lost  splendors  of  the  days  of  old, 
The  ruby  glass,  the  silver  and  the  gold, 
Andfelt  how  piercing  is  the  stingof  pride, 
By  want  embittered  and  intensified. 

He  looked  about  him  for  some  means  or 
way 

To  keep  this  unexpected  holiday  ; 
Searched  every  cupboard,  ' and  then 
searched  again, 

Summoned  the  maid,  who  came,  but 
came  in  vain  ; 

“ The  Signor  did  not  hunt  to-da}7,”  she 
said, 

“ There ’s  nothing  in  the  house  but  wine 
and  bread.” 


Then  suddenly  the  drowsy  falcon  shook 
His  little  bells,  with  that  sagacious  look, 
Which  said,  as  plain  as  language  to  the 
ear, 

“ If  anything  is  wanting,  I am  here  ! ” 
Yes,  everything  is  wanting,  gallant  bird  ! 
The  master  seized  thee  without  further  * 
word. 

Like  thine  own  lure,  he  whirled  thee 
round  ; ah  me  ! 

The  pomp  and  flutter  of  brave  falconry, 
The  bells,  the  jesses,  the  bright  scarlet 
hood, 

The  flight  and  the  pursuit  o’er  field  and 
wood, 

All  these  forevermore  are  ended  now  ; 

No  longer  victor,  but  the  victim  thou  ! 

Then  on  the  board  a snow-white  cloth 
he  spread, 

Laid  on  its  wooden  dish  the  loaf  of  bread, 
Brought  purple  grapes  with  autumn  sun- 
shine hot, 

The  fragrant  peach,  the  juicy  bergamot ; 
Then  in  the  midst  a flask  of  wine  he 
placed, 

And  with  autumnal  flowers  the  banquet 
graced. 

Ser  Federigo,  would  not  these  suffice 
Without  thy  falcon  stuffed  with  cloves 
and  spice  ? 

When  all  was  ready,  and  the  courtly 
dame 

With  her  companion  to  the  cottage  came, 
Upon  Ser  Federigo’s  brain  there  fell 
The  wild  enchantment  of  a magic  spell ! 
The  room  they  entered,  mean  and  low 
and  small, 

Was  changed  into  a sumptuous  banquet- 
hall, 

With  fanfares  by  aerial  trumpets  blown : 
The  rustic  chair  she  sat  on  was  a throne  ; 
He  ate  celestial  food,  and  a divine 
Flavor  was  given  to  his  country  wine, 
And  the  poor  falcon,  fragrant  with  his 
spice, 

A peacock  was,  or  bird  of  paradise  ! 

When  the  repast  was  ended,  they  arose 
And  passed  again  into  the  garden-close. 
Then  said  the  lady,  “Far  too  well  I 
know, 

Remembering  still  the  days  of  long  ago, 
Though  you  betray  it  not,  with  what 
surprise 

You  see  me  here  in  this  familiar  wise. 


INTERLUDE. 


241 


You  have  no  children,  and  you  cannot 

guess 

What  anguish,  what  unspeakable  dis- 
tress 

A mother  feels,  whose  child  is  lying  ill, 
Nor  how  her  heart  anticipates  his  will. 
And  yet  for  this,  you  see  me  lay  aside 
All  womanly  reserve  and  check  of  pride, 
And  ask  the  thing  most  precious  in  your 
sight, 

Your  falcon,  your  sole  comfort  and  de- 
light, 

Which  if  you  find  it  in  your  heart  to  give, 
My  poor,  unhappy  boy  perchance  may 
live.” 

Ser  Federigo  listens,  and  replies, 

With  tears  of  love  and  pity  in  his  eyes  : 

* * Alas,  dear  lady  ! there  can  be  no  task 
So  sweet  to  me,  as  giving  when  you  ask. 
One  little  hour  ago,  if  I had  known 
This  wish  of  yours,  it  would  have  been 
my  own. 

But  thinking  in  what  manner  I could 
best 

Do  honor  to  the  presence  of  my  guest, 

I deemed  that  nothing  worthier  could  be 
Than  what  most  dear  and  precious  was 
to  me, 

And  so  my  gallant  falcon  breathed  his 
last 

To  furnish  forth  this  morning  our  repast.  ” 

In  mute  contrition,  mingled  with  dismay, 
The  gentle  lady  turned  her  eyes  away, 
Grieving  that  he  such  sacrifice  should 
make, 

And  kill  his  falcon  for  a woman’s  sake, 
Yet  feeling  in  her  heart  a woman’s  pride, 
That  nothing  she  could  ask  for  was 
denied  ; 

Then  took  her  leave,  and  passed  out  at 
the  gate 

With  footstep  slow  and  soul  disconsolate. 

Three  days  went  by,  and  lo  ! a yjassing- 
bell 

Tolled  from  the  little  chapel  in  the  dell  ; 
Ten  strokes  Ser  Federigo  heard,  and  said, 
Breathing  a prayer,  ‘ ‘ Alas  ! her  child  is 
dead  ! ” 

Three  months  went  by  ; and  lo  ! a mer- 
rier chime 

Rang  from  the  chapel  bells  at  Christmas 
time  ; 

The  cottage  was  deserted,  and  no  more 
Ser  Federigo  sat  beside  its  door, 

16 


But  now,  with  servitors  to  do  his  will, 
In  the  grand  villa,  half-way  up  the  hill, 
Sat  at  the  Christmas  feast,  and  at  his  side 
Monna  Giovanna,  his  beloved  bride, 
Never  so  beautiful,  so  kind,  so  fair, 
Enthroned  once  more  in  the  old  rustic 
chair, 

High-perched  upon  the  back  of  which 
there  stood 

The  image  of  a falcon  carved  in  wood, 
And  underneath  the  inscription,  with  a 
date, 

“ All  things  come  round  to  him  who  will 
but  wait.” 


INTERLUDE. 

Soon  as  the  story  reached  its  end, 

One,  over  eager  to  commend, 

Crowned  it  with  injudicious  praise  ; 

And  then  the  voice  of  blame  found  vent, 
And  fanned  the  embers  of  dissent 
Into  a somewhat  lively  blaze. 

The  Theologian  shook  his  head  ; 

“ These  old  Italian  tales,”  he  said, 
“From  the  much -praised  Decameron 
down 

Through  all  the  rabble  of  the  rest, 

Are  either  trifling,  dull,  or  lewd  ; 

The  gossip  of  a neighborhood 
In  some  remote  provincial  town, 

A scandalous  chronicle  at  best  ! 

They  seem  to  me  a stagnant  fen, 

Grown  rank  with  rushes  and  with  reeds, 
Where  a white  lily,  now  and  then, 
Blooms  in  the  midst  of  noxious  weeds 
And  deadly  nightshade  on  its  banks.” 

To  this  the  Student  straight  replied, 
“For  the  white  lily,  many  thanks  ! 

One  should  not  say,  with  too  much  pride. 
Fountain,  I will  not  drink  of  thee  ! 

Nor  were  it  grateful  to  forget, 

That  from  these  reservoirs  and  tanks 
Even  imperial  Shakespeare  drew 
His  Moor  of  Venice,  and  the  Jew, 

And  Romeo  and  Juliet, 

And  many  a famous  comedy.  ” 

Then  a long  pause  ; till  some  one  said, 

“ An  Angel  is  flying  overhead  ! ” 

At  these  words  spake  the  Spanish  Jew, 
And  murmured  with  an  inward  breath  : 
“ God  grant,  if  what  you  say  be  true, 

It  may  not  be  the  Angel  of  Death  ! ” 


242 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


And  then  another  pause  ; and  then, 
Stroking  his  beard,  he  said  again  : 

“ This  brings  hack  to  my  memory 
A story  in  the  Talmud  told, 

That  book  of  gems,  that  book  of  gold, 
Of  wonders  many  and  manifold, 

A tale  that  often  comes  to  me, 

And  fills  my  heart,  and  haunts  my  brain, 
And  never  wearies  nor  grows  old.  ” 


THE  SPANISH  JEW’S  TALE. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  RABBI  BEN  LEVI. 

Rabbi  Ben  Levi,  on  the  Sabbath,  read 
A volume  of  the  Law,  in  which  it  said, 
“No  man  shall  look  upon  my  face  and 
live.” 

And  as  he  read,  he  prayed  that  God 
would  give 

His  faithful  servant  grace  with  mortal 
eye 

To  look  upon  His  face  and  yet  not  die. 

Then  fell  a sudden  shadow  on  the  page, 
And,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  grown  dim  with 
age, 

He  saw  the  Angel  of  Death  before  him 
stand, 

Holding  a naked  sword  in  his  right  hand. 
Rabbi  Ben  Levi  was  a righteous  man, 
Yet  through  his  veins  a chill  of  terror 
ran. 

With  trembling  voice  he  said,  “What 
wilt  thou  here  ? ” 

The  angel  answered,  “ Lo  ! the  time 
draws  near 

When  thou  must  die  ; yet  first,  by  God’s 
decree, 

Whate’er  thou  askest  shall  be  granted 
thee.” 

Replied  the  Rabbi,  “ Let  these  living 
eyes 

First  look  upon  my  place  in  Paradise.” 

Thqn  said  the  Angel,  “ Come  with  me 
and  look.” 

Rabbi  Ben  Levi  closed  the  sacred  book, 
And  rising,  and  uplifting  his  gray  head, 
“ Give  me  thy  sword,”  he  to  the  Angel 
said, 

“ Lest  thou  should st  fall  upon  me  by  the 
way.” 

The  angel  smiled  and  hastened  to  obey, 
Then  led  him  forth  to  the  Celestial  Town, 
And  set  him  on  the  wall,  whence,  gazing 
down, 


Rabbi  Ben  Levi,  with  his  living  eyes, 
Might  look  upon  his  place  in  Paradise. 

Then  straight  into  the  city  of  the  Lord 
The  Rabbi  leaped  with  the  Death-Angel’s 
sword, 

And  through  the  streets  there  swept  a 
sudden  breath 

Of  something  there  unknown,  which  men 
call  death. 

Meanwhile  the  Angel  stayed  without, 
and  cried, 

“ Come  back  ! ” To  which  the  Rabbi’s 
voice  replied, 

“No!  in  the  name  of  God,  whom  I 
adore, 

I swear  that  hence  I will  depart  no 
more  ! ” 

Then  all  the  Angels  cried,  “ 0 Holy  One, 
See  what  the  son  of  Levi  here  hath  done  ! 
The  kingdom  of  Heaven  he  takes  by 
violence, 

And  in  Thy  name  refuses  to  go  hence  ! ” 
The  Lord  replied,  “ My  Angels,  be  not 
wroth  ; 

Did  e’er  the  son  of  Levi  break  his  oath  ? 
Let  him  remain  ; for  he  with  mortal  eye 
Shall  look  upon  my  face  and  yet  not  die.’" 

Beyond  the  outer  wall  the  Angel  of  Death 
Heard  the  great  voice,  and  said,  with 
panting  breath, 

“ Give  back  the  sword,  and  let  me  go 
my  way.” 

Whereat  the  Rabbi  paused,  and  answered, 
“Nay! 

Anguish  enough  already  has  it  caused 
Among  the  sons  of  men.”  And  while 
he  paused 

He  heard  the  awful  mandate  of  the 
Lord 

Resounding  through  the  air,  “ Give  back 
the  sword  ! ” 

The  Rabbi  bowed  his  head  in  silent 
prayer  ; 

Then  said  he  to  the  dreadful  Angel, 
“ Swear, 

No  human  eye  shall  look  on  it  again  ; 
But  when  thou  takest  away  the  souls  of 
men, 

Thyself  unseen,  and  with  an  unseen 
sword, 

Thou  wilt  perform  the  bidding  of  the 
Lord.” 


KING  ROBERT  OF  SICILY.  243 


The  Angel  took  the  sword  again,  and 
swore, 

And  walks  on  earth  unseen  forevermore. 


INTERLUDE. 

He  ended  : and  a kind  of  spell 
Upon  the  silent  listeners  fell. 

His  solemn  manner  and  his  words 
Had  touched  the  deep,  mysterious 
chords, 

That  vibrate  in  each  human  breast 
Alike,  but  not  alike  confessed. 

The  spiritual  world  seemed  near  ; 

And  close  above  them,  full  of  fear, 

Its  awful  adumbration  passed, 

A luminous  shadow,  vague  and  vast. 
They  almost  feared  to  look,  lest  there, 
Embodied  from  the  impalpable  air, 

They  might  behold  the  Angel  stand, 
Holding  the  sword  in  his  right  hand. 

At  last,  but  in  a voice  subdued, 

Not  to  disturb  their  dreamy  mood, 

Said  the  Sicilian  : ‘ ‘ While  you  spoke, 
Telling  your  legend  marvellous, 
Suddenly  in  my  memory  woke 
The  thought  of  one,  now  gone  from  us,  — 
An  old  Abate,  meek  and  mild, 

My  friend  and  teacher,  when  a child, 
Who  sometimes  in  those  days  of  old 
The  legend  of  an  Angel  told, 

Which  ran,  as  I remember,  thus.” 


THE  SICILIAN’S  TALE. 

KING  ROBERT  OF  SICILY. 

Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Ur- 
bane 

And  Yalmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 

Apparelled  in  magnificent  attire, 

With  retinue  of  many  a knight  and 
squire, 

On  St.  John’s  eve,  at  vespers,  proudly 
sat 

And  heard  the  priests  chant  the  Mag- 
nificat. 

And  as  he  listened,  o’er  and  o’er  again 

Repeated,  like  a burden  or  refrain, 

He  caught  the  words,  ‘ i Deposuit  poten- 
tes 

De  sede,  et  exaltavit  Jiumiles  ” ; 

And  slowly  lifting  up  his  kingly  head 

He  to  a learned  clerk  beside  him  said. 


“ What  mean  these  words  ? ” The  clerk 
made  answer  meet, 

“He  has  put  down  the  mighty  from 
their  seat, 

And  has  exalted  them  of  low  degree.” 

Thereat  King  Robert  muttered  scorn  fully, 

“ ’T  is  well  that  such  seditious  words  are 
sung 

Only  by  priests  and  in  the  Latin  tongue  ; 

For  unto  priests  and  people  be  it  known, 

There  is  no  power  can  push  me  from  my 
throne  ! ” 

And  leaning  back,  he  yawned  and  fell 
asleep, 

Lulled  by  the  chant  monotonous  and 
deep. 

When  he  awoke,  it  was  already  night  ; 

The  church  was  empty,  and  there  was  no 
light, 

Save  where  the  lamps,  that  glimmered 
few  and  faint, 

Lighted  a little  space  before  some  saint. 

He  started  from  his  seat  and  gazed 
around, 

But  saw  no  living  thing  and  heard  no 
sound. 

He  groped  towards  the  door,  but  it  was 
locked  ; 

He  cried  aloud,  and  listened,  and  then 
knocked, 

And  uttered  awful  threatenings  and  com- 
plaints, 

And  imprecations  upon  men  and  saints. 

The  sounds  re-echoed  from  the  roof  and 
walls 

As  if  dead  priests  were  laughing  in  their 
stalls. 

At  length  the  sexton,  hearing  from 
without 

The  tumult  of  the  knocking  and  the 
shout, 

And  thinking  thieves  were  in  the  house 
of  prayer, 

Came  with  his  lantern,  asking,  ‘ ‘ Who  is 
there  ? ” 

Half  choked  with  rage,  King  Robert 
fiercely  said, 

“ Open  : ’t  is  I,  the  King  ! Art  thou 
afraid  ? ” 

The  frightened  sexton,  muttering,  with 
a curse, 

“This  is  some  drunken  vagabond,  or 
worse  ! ” 

Turned  the  great  key  and  flung  the  por- 
tal wide  ; 


244 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


A man  rushed  by  him  at  a single  stride, 
Haggard,  half  naked,  without  hat  or 
cloak, 

Who  neither  turned,  nor  looked  at  him, 
nor  spoke, 

But  leaped  into  the  blackness  of  the 
night, 

And  vanished  like  a spectre  from  his 
sight. 

Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Urbane 
And  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Despoiled  of  his  magnifieent  attire, 
Bareheaded,  breathless,  and  besprent 
with  mire, 

With  sense  of  wrong  and  outrage  desper- 
ate, 

Strode  on  and  thundered  at  the  palace 
gate  ; 

Rushed  through  the  courtyard,  thrust- 
ing in  his  rage 

To  right  and  left  each  seneschal  and 
page, 

And  hurried  up  the  broad  and  sounding 
stair, 

His  white  face  ghastly  in  the  torches’ 
glare. 

From  hall  to  hall  he  passed  with  breath- 
less speed  ; 

Voices  and  cries  he  heard,  but  did  not 
heed, 

Until  at  last  he  reached  the  banquet- 
room, 

Blazing  with  light,  and  breathing  with 
perfume. 

There  on  the  dais  sat  another  king, 
Wearing  his  robes,  his  crown,  his  signet- 
ring, 

King  Robert’s  self  in  features,  form,  and 
height, 

But  all  transfigured  with  angelic  light  ! 
It  was  an  Angel  ; and  his  presence  there 
With  a divine  effulgence  filled  the  air, 
An  exaltation,  piercing  the  disguise, 
Though  none  the  hidden  Angel  recognize. 

A moment  speechless,  motionless, 
amazed, 

The  throneless  monarch  on  the  Angel 
gazed, 

Who  met  his  look  of  anger  and  surprise 
With  the  divine  compassion  of  his  eyes  ; 
Then  said,  “ Who  art  thou  ? and  why 
com’st  thou  here  ? ” 

To  which  King  Robert  answered,  with  a 
sneer, 


‘ 4 1 am  the  King,  and  come  to  claim  my  own 
From  an  impostor,  who  usurps  my 
throne  ! ” 

And  suddenly,  at  these  audacious  words, 
Up  sprang  the  angry  guests,  and  drew 
their  swords  ; 

The  Angel  answered,  with  unruffled  brow, 
‘‘Nay,  not  the  King,  but  the  King’s  Jes- 
ter, thou 

Henceforth  shall  wear  the  bells  and 
scalloped  cape, 

And  for  thy  counsellor  shalt  lead  an  ape  ; 
Thou  shalt  obey  my  servants  when  they 
call, 

And  wait  upon  my  henchmen  in  the  hall ! ” 

Deaf  to  King  Robert’s  threats  and  cries 
and  prayers, 

They  thrust  him  from  the  hall  and  down 
the  stairs  ; 

A group  of  tittering  pages  ran  before, 
And  as  they  opened  wide  the  folding- 
door, 

His  heart  failed,  for  he  heard,  with 
strange  alarms, 

The  boisterous  laughter  of  the  men-at- 
arms, 

And  all  the  vaulted  chamber  roar  and  ring 
With  the  mock  plaudits  of  “ Long  live 
the  King  ! ” 

Next  morning,  waking  with  the  day’s 
first  beam, 

He  said  within  himself,  “It  was  a 
dream  ! ” 

But  the  straw  rustled  as  he  turned  his 
head, 

There  were  the  cap  and  bells  beside  his  bed, 
A round  him  rose  the  bare,  discolored  walls, 
Close  by,  the  steeds  were  champing  in 
their  stalls, 

And  in  the  corner,  a revolting  shape, 
Shivering  and  chattering  sat  the  wretch- 
ed ape. 

It  was  no  dream  ; the  world  he  loved  so 
much 

Had  turned  to  dust  and  ashes  at  his 
touch  ! 

Days  came  and  went  ; and  now  returned 
again 

To  Sicily  the  old  Saturnian  reign  ; 
Under  the  Angel’s  governance  benign 
The  happy  island  danced  with  corn  and 
wine, 

And  deep  within  the  mountain’s  burn- 
ing breast 

Enceladus,  the  giant,  was  at  rest. 


KING  ROBERT  OF  SICILY. 


245 


Meanwhile  King  Robert  yielded  to  his 
fate, 

Sullen  and  silent  and  disconsolate. 
Dressed  in  the  motley  garb  that  Jesters 
wear, 

With  look  bewildered  and  a vacant  stare, 
Close  shaven  above  the  ears,  as  monks 
are  shorn, 

By  courtiers  mocked,  by  pages  laughed 
to  scorn, 

His  only  friend  the  ape,  his  only  food 
What  others  left,  — he  still  was  unsub- 
dued. 

And  when  the  Angel  met  him  on  his  way, 
And  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest,  would 
say, 

Sternly,  though  tenderly,  that  he  might 
feel 

The  velvet  scabbard  held  a sword  of  steel, 
“Art  thou  the  King?”  the  passion  of 
his  woe 

Burst  from  him  in  resistless  overflow. 
And,  lifting  high  his  forehead,  he  would 
fling 

The  haughty  answer  back,  “ I am,  I am 
the  King  ! ” 

Almost  three  years  were  ended  ; when 
there  came 

Ambassadors  of  great  repute  and  name 
From  Y almond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Unto  King  Robert,  saying  that  Pope 
Urbane 

By  letter  summoned  them  forthwith  to 
come 

On  Holy  Thursday  to  his  city  of  Rome. 
The  Angel  with  great  joy  received  his 
guests, 

And  gave  them  presents  of  embroidered 
vests, 

And  velvet  mantles  with  rich  ermine 
lined, 

And  rings  and  jewels  of  the  rarest  kind. 
Then  he  departed  with  them  o’er  the  sea 
Into  the  lovely  land  of  Italy, 

Whose  loveliness  was  more  resplendent 
made 

By  the  mere  passing  of  that  cavalcade, 
With  plumes,  and  cloaks,  and  housings, 
and  the  stir 

Of  jewelled  bridle  and  of  golden  spur. 

And  lo  ! among  the  menials,  in  mock 
state, 

Upon  a piebald  steed,  with  shambling 
gait, 

His  cloak  of  fox-tails  flapping  in  the  wind, 


The  solemn  ape  demurely  perched  be- 
hind, 

King  Robert  rode,  making  huge  merri- 
ment 

In  all  the  country  towns  through  which 
they  went. 

The  Pope  received  them  with  great  pomp 
and  blare 

Of  bannered  trumpets,  on  Saint  Peter’s 
square, 

Giving  his  benediction  and  embrace, 
Fervent,  and  full  of  apostolic  grace. 

While  with  congratulations  and  with 
prayers 

He  entertained  the  Angel  unawares, 
Robert,  the  Jester,  bursting  through  the 
crowd, 

Into  their  presence  rushed,  and  cried 
aloud, 

“I  am  the  King  ! Look,  and  behold  in 
me 

Robert,  your  brother,  King  of  Sicily  ! 

This  man,  who  wears  my  semblance  to 
your  eyes, 

Is  an  impostor  in  a king’s  disguise. 

Do  you  not  know  me  ? does  no  voice 
within 

Answer  my  cry,  and  say  we  are  akin  ? ” 
The  Pope  in  silence,  but  with  troubled 
mien, 

Gazed  at  the  Angel’s  countenance  serene  ; 
The  Emperor,  laughing,  said,  “It  is 
strange  sport 

To  keep  a madman  for  thy  Fool  at  court ! ” 
And  the  poor,  baffled  Jester  in  disgrace 
Was  hustled  back  among  the  populace. 

In  solemn  state  the  Holy  Week  went  by, 
And  Easter  Sunday  gleamed  upon  the 
sky  ; 

The  presence  of  the  Angel,  with  its  light, 
Before  the  sun  rose,  made  the  city  bright,  * 
And  with  new  fervor  filled  the  hearts 
of  men, 

Who  felt  that  Christ  indeed  had  risen 
again. 

Even  the  Jester,  on  his  bed  of  straw, 

With  haggard  eyes  the  unwonted  splen- 
dor saw, 

He  felt  within  a power  unfelt  before, 

And,  kneeling  humbly  on  his  chamber 
floor, 

He  heard  the  rushing  garments  of  the 
Lord 

Sweep  through  the  silent  air,  ascending 
heavenward. 


246 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


And  now  the  visit  ending,  and  once  more 
Valmond  returning  to  the  Danube’s 
shore, 

Homeward  the  Angel  journeyed,  and 
again 

The  land  was  made  resplendent  with  his 
train, 

Flashing  along  the  towns  of  Italy 
Unto  Salerno,  and  from  thence  by  sea. 
And  when  once  more  within  Palermo’s 
wall, 

And,  seated  on  the  throne  in  his  great 
hall, 

He  heard  the  Angelus  from  convent 
towers, 

As  if  the  better  world  conversed  with 
ours, 

He  beckoned  to  King  Robert  to  draw 
nigher, 

And  with  a gesture  bade  the  rest  retire  ; 
And  when  they  were  alone,  the  Angel 
said, 

“Art  thou  the  King?”  Then,  bowing 
down  his  head, 

King  Robert  crossed  both  hands  upon 
his  breast, 

And  meekly  answered  him:  “Thou 
k no  west  best  ! 

My  sins  as  scarlet  are  ; let  me  go  hence, 
And  in  some  cloister’s  school  of  peni- 
tence, 

Across  those  stones,  that  pave  the  way 
to  heaven, 

Walk  barefoot,  till  my  guilty  soul  be 
. shriven  ! ” 

The  Angel  smiled,  and  from  his  radiant 
face 

A holy  light  illumined  all  the  place, 

And  through  the  open  window,  loud  and 
clear. 

They  heard  the  monks  chant  in  the 
chapel  near, 

Above  the  stir  and  tumult  of  the  street  : 
“He  has  put  down  the  mighty  from 
their  seat, 

And  has  exalted  them  of  low  degree  ! ” 
And  through  the  chant  a second  melody 
Rose  like  the  throbbing  of  a single  string  : 
“ I am  an  Angel,  and  thou  art  the  King !” 

King  Robert,  who  was  standing  near  the 
throne, 

Lifted  his  eyes,  and  lo  ! he  was  alone  ! 
But  all  apparelled  as  in  days  of  old, 
With  ermined  mantle  and  with  cloth  of 
gold; 


And  when  his  courtiers  came,  they  found 
him  there 

Kneeling  upon  the  floor,  absorbed  in 
silent  prayer. 


INTERLUDE. 

And  then  the  blue-eyed  Norseman  told 
A Saga  of  the  days  of  old. 

“ There  is,”  said  he,  “a  wondrous  book 
Of  Legends  in  the  old  Norse  tongue, 

Of  the  dead  kings  of  Norroway,  — 
Legends  that  once  were  told  or  sung 
In  many  a smoky  fireside  nook 
Of  Iceland,  in  the  ancient  day, 

By  wandering  Saga-man  or  Scald  ; 
Heimskringla,  is  the  volume  called  ; 
And  he  who  looks  may  find  therein 
The  story  that  I now  begin.” 

And  in  each  pause  the  story  made 
Upon  his  violin  he  played, 

As  an  appropriate  interlude, 

Fragments  of  old  Norwegian  tunes 
That  bound  in  one  the  separate  runes, 
And  held  the  mind  in  perfect  mood, 
Entwining  and  encircling  all 
The  strange  and  antiquated  rhymes 
With  melodies  of  olden  times  ; 

As  over  some  half-ruined  wall, 
Disjointed  and  about  to  fall, 

Fresh  woodbines  climb  and  interlace, 
And  keep  the  loosened  stones  in  place. 


THE  MUSICIAN’S  TALE. 
THE  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF. 
I. 

THE  CHALLENGE  OF  THOR. 

I am  the  God  Thor, 

I am  the  War  God, 

I am  the  Thunderer  ! 

Here  in  my  Northland, 

My  fastness  and  fortress, 
Reign  I forever  ! 

Here  amid  icebergs 
Rule  I the  nations  ; 

This  is  my  hammer, 
Miolner  the  mighty  ; 
Giants  and  sorcerers 
Cannot  withstand  it  ! 


THE  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF. 


247 


These  are  the  gauntlets 
Wherewith  I wield  it, 

And  hurl  it  afar  off ; 

This  is  my  girdle  ; 

Whenever  I brace  it, 
Strength  is  redoubled  ! 

The  light  thou  beholdest 
Stream  through  the  heavens, 
In  flashes  of  crimson, 

Is  but  my  red  beard 
Blown  by  the  night-wind, 
Affrighting  the  nations  ! 

Jove  is  my  brother  ; 

Mine  eyes  are  the  lightning  ; 
The  wheels  of  my  chariot 
Roll  in  the  thunder, 

The  blows  of  my  hammer 
Ring  in  the  earthquake  ! 

Force  rules  the  world  still, 
Has  ruled  it,  shall  rule  it  ; 
Meekness  is  weakness, 
Strength  is  triumphant. 

Over  the  whole  earth 
Still  is  it  Thor’s-Day  ! 

Thou  art  a God  too, 

0 Galilean  ! 

And  thus  single-handed 
Unto  the  combat, 

Gauntlet  or  Gospel, 

Here  I defy  thee  ! 


II. 

KING  OLAF’S  RETURN. 

And  King  Olaf  heard  the  cry, 

Saw  the  red  light  in  the  sky, 

Laid  his  hand  upon  his  sword, 

As  he  leaned  upon  the  railing, 

And  his  ships  went  sailing,  sailing 
Northward  into  Drontheim  fiord. 

There  he  stood  as  one  who  dreamed  ; 
And  the  red  light  glanced  and  gleamed 
On  the  armor  that  he  wore  ; 

And  he  shouted,  as  the  rifted 
Streamers  o’er  him  shook  and  shifted, 

“ I accept  thy  challenge,  Thor  ! ” 

To  avenge  his  father  slain, 

And  reconquer  realm  and  reign, 

Came  the  youthful  Olaf  home, 
Through  the  midnight  sailing,  sailing, 


Listening  to  the  wild  wind’s  wailing, 
And  the  dashing  of  the  foam. 

To  his  thoughts  the  sacred  name 
Of  his  mother  Astrid  came, 

And  the  tale  she  oft  had  told 
Of  her  flight  by  secret  passes 
Through  the  mountains  and  morasses, 
To  the  home  of  Hakon  old. 

Then  strange  memories  crowded  back 
Of  Queen  Gunhild’s  wrath  and  wrack, 
And  a hurried  flight  by  sea  ; 

Of  grim  Vikings,  and  the  rapture 
Of  the  sea-fight,  and  the  capture, 

And  the  life  of  slavery. 

How  a stranger  watched  his  face 
In  the  Esthonian  market-place. 

Scanned  his  features  one  by  one, 
Saying,  “We  should  know  each  other  ; 
I am  Sigurd,  Astrid’s  brother, 

Thou  art  Olaf,  Astrid’s  son  ! ” 

Then  as  Queen  Allogia’s  page, 

Old  in  honors,  young  in  age, 

Chief  of  all  her  men-at-arms  ; 

Till  vague  whispers,  and  mysterious, 
Readied  King  Valdemar,  the  imperious, 
Filling  him  with  strange  alarms. 

Then  his  cruisings  o’er  the  seas, 
Westward  to  the  Hebrides, 

And  to  Scilly’s  rocky  shore  ; 

And  the  hermit’s  cavern  dismal, 

Christ’s  great  name  and  rites  baptismal 
In  the  ocean’s  rush  and  roar. 

All  these  thoughts  of  love  and  strife 
Glimmered  through  his  lurid  life, 

As  the  stars’  intenser  light 
Through  the  red  flames  o’er  him  trailing, 
As  his  ships  went  sailing,  sailing, 
Northward  in  the  summer  night. 

Trained  for  either  camp  or  court, 

Skilful  in  each  manly  sport, 

Young  and  beautiful  and  tall ; 

Art  of  warfare,  craft  of  chases, 
Swimming,  skating,  snow-shoe  races, 
Excellent  alike  in  all. 

When  at  sea,  with  all  his  rowers, 

He  along  the  bending  oars 
Outside  of  his  ship  could  run. 

He  the  Smalsor  Horn  ascended, 

And  his  shining  shield  suspended 
On  its  summit,  like  a sun. 


248 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


On  the  ship-rails  he  could  stand, 
Wield  his  sword  with  either  hand, 
And  at  once  two  javelins  throw  ; 

At  all  feasts  where  ale  was  strongest 
Sat  the  merry  monarch  longest, 

First  to  come  and  last  to  go. 

Norway  never  yet  had  seen 
One  so  beautiful  of  mien, 

One  so  royal  in  attire, 

When  in  arms  completely  furnished, 
Harness  gold-inlaid  and  burnished, 
Mantle  like  a flame  of  Are. 

Thus  came  Olaf  to  his  own, 

When  upon  the  night-wind  blown 
Passed  that  cry  along  the  shore  ; 
And  he  answered,  while  the  rifted 
Streamers  o’er  him  shook  and  shifted, 
“1  accept  thy  challenge,  Thor  ! ’’ 


hi. 

THORA  OF  RIMOL. 

“ Thora  of  Rimol  ! hide  me  ! hide  me  ! 
Danger  and  shame  and  death  betide  me  ! 
For  Olaf  the  King  is  hunting  me  down 
Through  field  and  forest,  through  thorp 
and  town  ! ” 

Thus  cried  Jarl  Hakon 
To  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

“ Hakon  Jarl  ! for  the  love  I bear  thee 
Neither  shall  shame  nor  death  come 
near  thee  ! 

But  the  hiding-place  wherein  thou  must 
lie 

Is  the  cave  underneath  the  swine  in  the 
sty.” 

Thus  to  Jarl  Plakon 

Said  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

So  Hakon  Jarl  and  his  base  thrall  Karker 
Crouched  in  the  cave,  than  a dungeon 
darker, 

As  Olaf  came  riding,  with  men  in  mail, 
Through  the  forest  roads  into  Orkadale, 
Demanding  Jarl  Hakon 
Of  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

“ Rich  and  honored  shall  be  whoever 
The  head  of  Hakon  Jarl  shall  dissever  ! ” 
Hakon  heard  him,  and  Karker  the  slave, 
Through  the  breathing-holes  of  the  dark- 
some cave. 

Alone  in  her  chamber 

Wept  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 


Said  Karker,  the  crafty,  “ I will  not  slay 
thee  ! 

For  all  the  king’s  gold  I will  never  betray 
thee  ! ” 

“ Then  why  dost  thou  turn  so  pale,  0 
churl, 

And  then  again  black  as  the  earth  ? ” said 
the  Earl. 

More  pale  and  more  faithful 
Was  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

From  a dream  in  the  night  the  thrall 
started,  saying, 

4 ‘ Round  my  neck  a gold  ring  King  Olaf 
was  laying  ! ” 

And  Hakon  answered,  “ Beware  of  the 
king  ! 

He  will  lay  round  thy  neck  a blood-red 
ring.” 

At  the  ring  on  her  finger 
Gazed  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

At  daybreak  slept  Hakon,  with  sorrows 
encumbered, 

But  screamed  and  drew  up  his  feet  as  he 
slumbered  ; 

The  thrall  in  the  darkness  plunged  with 
his  knife, 

And  the  Earl  awakened  no  more  in  this 
life. 

But  wakeful  and  weeping 
Sat  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 

At  N idarholm  the  priests  are  all  singing, 

Two  ghastly  heads  on  the  gibbet  are 
swinging  ; 

One  is  Jarl  Hakon’s  and  one  is  his 
thrall’s, 

And  the  people  are  shouting  from  win- 
dows and  walls  ; 

While  alone  in  her  chamber 
Swoons  Thora,  the  fairest  of  women. 


IV. 

QUEEN  SIGRID  THE  HAUGHTY. 

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty  sat  proud 
and  aloft 

In  her  chamber,  that  looked  over  meadow 
and  croft. 

Heart’s  dearest, 

Why  dost  thou  sorrow  so  ? 

The  floor  with  tassels  of  fir  was  besprent, 

Filling  the  room  with  their  fragrant 
scent. 


THE  SAGA.  OF  KING  OLAF. 


249 


She  heard  the  birds  sing,  she  saw  the  sun 
shine, 

The  air  of  summer  was  sweeter  than  wine. 

Like  a sword  without  scabbard  the  bright 
river  lay 

Between  her  own  kingdom  and  Norroway. 

But  Olaf  the  King  had  sued  for  her  hand, 

The  sword  would  be  sheathed,  the  river 
be  spanned. 

Her  maidens  were  seated  around  her 
knee, 

Working  bright  figures  in  tapestry. 

And  one  was  singing  the  ancient  rune 

Of  Brynhilda’s  love  and  the  wrath  of 
Gudrun. 

And  through  it,  and  round  it,  and  over 
it  all 

Sounded  incessant  the  waterfall. 

The  Queen  in  her  hand  held  a ring  of 
gold, 

From  the  door  of  Lade’s  Temple  old. 

King  Olaf  had  sent  her  this  wedding  gift, 

But  her  thoughts  as  arrows  were  keen 
and  swift. 

She  had  given  the  ring  to  her  goldsmiths 
twain, 

Who  smiled,  as  they  handed  it  back 
again. 

And  Sigrid  the  Queen,  in  her  haughty  way, 

Said,  44  Why  do  you  smile,  my  gold- 
smiths, say  ? ” 

And  they  answered  : 44  0 Queen  ! if  the 
truth  must  be  told, 

The  ring  is  of  copper,  and  not  of  gold  ! ” 

The  lightning  flashed  o’er  her  forehead 
and  cheek, 

She  only  murmured,  she  did  not  speak  : 

“ If  in  his  gifts  he  can  faithless  be, 

There  will  be  no  gold  in  his  love  to  me.” 

A footstep  was  heard  on  the  outer  stair, 

And  in  strode  King  Olaf  with  royal  air. 

He  kissed  the  Queen’s  hand,  and  he 
whispered  of  love, 

And  swore  to  be  true  as  the  stars  are 
above. 


But  she  smiled  with  contempt  as  she 
answered  : “0  King, 

Will  you  swear  it,  as  Odin  once  swore, 
on  the  ring  ? ” 

And  the  King  : 4 4 O speak  not  of  Odin 
to  me, 

The  wife  of  King  Olaf  a Christian  must 
be.” 

Looking  straight  at  the  King,  with  her 
level  brows, 

She  said,  4 4 1 keep  true  to  my  faith  and 
my  vows.” 

Then  the  face  of  King  Olaf  was  darkened 
with  gloom, 

He  rose  in  his  anger  and  strode  through 
the  room. 

“Why,  then,  should  I care  to  have 
thee  ? ” he  said,  — 

44  A faded  old  woman,  a heathenish 
jade  ! ” 

His  zeal  was  stronger  than  fear  or  love, 

And  he  struck  the  Queen  in  the  face  with 
his  glove. 

Then  forth  from  the  chamber  in  anger  he 
fled, 

And  the  wooden  stairway  shook  with  his 
tread. 

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty  said  under 
her  breath, 

“This  insult,  King  Olaf,  shall  be  thy 
death  ! ” 

Heart’s  dearest, 

Why  dost  thou  sorrow  so  ? 


Y. 

THE  SKERRY  OF  SHRIEKS. 

Now  from  all  King  Olafs  farms 
His  men-at-arms 
Gathered  on  the  Eve  of  Easter  ; 

To  his  house  at  Angvalds-ness 
Fast  they  press, 

Drinking  with  the  royal  feaster. 

Loudly  through  the  wide-flung  door 
Came  the  roar 

Of  the  sea  upon  the  Skerry  ; 

And  its  thunder  loud  and  near 
Reached  the  ear, 

Mingling  with  their  voices  merry. 


250 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


“ Hark  ! ” said  Olaf  to  his  Scald, 

Halfred  the  Bald, 

“ Listen  to  that  song,  and  learn  it ! 

Half  my  kingdom  would  I give, 

As  I live, 

If  by  such  songs  you  would  earn  it ! 

“ For  of  all  the  runes  and  rhymes 
Of  all  times, 

Best  I like  the  ocean’s  dirges, 

When  the  old  harper  heaves  and  rocks, 
His  hoary  locks 

Flowing  and  flashing  in  the  surges  ! ” 

Halfred  answered  : “I  am  called 
The  Unappalled  ! 

Nothing  hinders  me  or  daunts  me. 
Hearken  to  me,  then,  0 King, 

While  I sing 

The  great  Ocean  Song  that  haunts  me.” 

“ I will  hear  your  song  sublime 
Some  other  time,” 

Says  the  drowsy  monarch,  yawning, 

And  retires  ; each  laughing  guest 
Applauds  the  jest  ; 

Then  they  sleep  till  day  is  dawning. 

Pacing  up  and  down  the  yard, 

King  Olaf  s guard 
Saw  the  sea- mist  slowly  creeping 
O’er  the  sands,  and  up  the  hill, 
Gathering  still 

Round  the  house  where  they  were 
sleeping. 

It  was  not  the  fog  he  saw, 

Nor  misty  flaw, 

That  above  the  landscape  brooded  ; 

It  was  Eyvind  Kallda’s  crew 
Of  warlocks  blue 

With  their  caps  of  darkness  hooded  ! 

Round  and  round  the  house  they  go, 
Weaving  slow 
Magic  circles  to  encumber 
And  imprison  in  their  ring 
Olaf  the  King, 

As  he  helpless  lies  in  slumber. 

Then  athwart  the  vapors  dun 
The  Easter  sun 

Streamed  with  one  broad  track  of  splen- 
dor ! 

In  their  real  forms  appeared 
The  warlocks  weird, 

Awful  as  the  Witch  of  Endor. 


Blinded  by  the  light  that  glared, 

They  groped  and  stared 
Round  about  with  steps  unsteady  ; 

From  his  window  Olaf  gazed, 

And,  amazed, 

“ Who  are  these  strange  people  ?”  said 
he. 

“ Eyvind  Kallda  and  his  men  ! ” 
Answered  then 

From  the  yard  a sturdy  farmer  ; 

While  the  men-at-arms  apace 
Filled  the  place, 

Busily  buckling  on  their  armor. 

From  the  gates  they  sallied  forth, 

South  and  north, 

Scoured  the  island  coast  around  them, 
Seizing  all  the  warlock  band, 

Foot  and  hand 

On  the  Skerry’s  rocks  they  bound  them. 

And  at  eve  the  king  again 
Called  his  train, 

And,  with  all  the  candles  burning, 
Silent  sat  and  heard  once  more 
The  sullen  roar 
Of  the  ocean  tides  returning. 

Shrieks  and  cries  of  wild  despair 
Filled  the  air, 

Growing  fainter  as  they  listened  ; 

Then  the  bursting  surge  alone 
Sounded  on  ; — 

Thus  the  sorcerers  were  christened  ! 

“Sing.  O Scald,  your  song  sublime, 
Your  ocean-rhyme,” 

Cried  King  Olaf  : “it  will  cheer  me  ! ” 
Said  the  Scald,  with  pallid  cheeks, 
“The  Skerry  of  Shrieks 
Sings  too  loud  for  you  to  hear  me  ! ” 


YI. 

THE  WRAITH  OF  ODIN. 

The  guests  were  loud,  the  ale  was 
strong, 

King  Olaf  feasted  late  and  long  ; 

The  hoary  Scalds  together  sang  ; 
O’erhead  the  smoky  rafters  rang. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  door  swung  wide,  with  creak  and 
din  ; 

A blast  of  cold  night-air  came  in, 


THE  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF. 


251 


And  on  the  threshold  shivering  stood 
A one-eyed  guest,  with  cloak  and  hood. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  King  exclaimed,  “0  graybeard 
pale  ! 

Come  warm  thee  with  this  cup  of  ale.” 
The  foaming  draught  the  old  man 
quaffed, 

The  noisy  guests  looked  on  and  laughed. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Then  spake  the  King  : “ Be  not  afraid  ; 
Sit  here  by  me.”  The  guest  obeyed, 
And,  seated  at  the  table,  told 
Tales  of  the  sea,  and  Sagas  old. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

And  ever,  when  the  tale  was  o’er, 

The  King  demanded  yet  one  more  ; 

Till  Sigurd  the  Bishop  smiling  said, 

“’T  is  late,  0 King,  and  time  for  bed.” 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  King  retired  ; the  stranger  guest 
Followed  and  entered  with  the  rest ; 

The  lights  were  out,  the  pages  gone, 

But  still  the  garrulous  guest  spake  on. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

As  one  who  from  a volume  reads, 

He  spake  of  heroes  and  their  deeds, 

Of  lands  and  cities  he  had  seen, 

And  stormy  gulfs  that  tossed  between. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Then  from  his  lips  in  music  rolled 
The  Havamal  of  Odin  old, 

With  sounds  mysterious  as  the  roar 
Of  billows  on  a distant  shore. 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

“Do  we  not  learn  from  runes  and 
rhymes 

Made  by  the  gods  in  elder  times, 

And  do  not  still  the  great  Scerids  teach 
That  silence  better  is  than  speech  ?” 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

Smiling  at  this,  the  King  replied, 

“ Thy  lore  is  by  thy  tongue  belied  ; 

For  never  was  1 so  enthralled 
Either  by  Saga-man.  or  Scald.” 

Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

The  Bishop  said,  “ Late  hours  we  keep  ! 
Night  wanes,  0 King  ! ’t  is  time  for 
sleep  ! ” 


Then  slept  the  King,  and  when  he  woke 
The  guest  was  gone,  the  morning  broke. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

They  found  the  doors  securely  barred, 
They  found  the  watch-dog  in  the  yard, 
There  was  no  footprint  in  the  grass, 

And  none  had  seen  the  stranger  pass. 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 

King  Olaf  crossed  himself  and  said  : 

“ I know  that  Odin  the  Great  is  dead  ; 
Sure  is  the  triumph  of  our  Faith, 

The  one-eyed  stranger  was  his  wraith.” 
Dead  rides  Sir  Morten  of  Fogelsang. 


VII. 

IRON-BEARD. 

Olaf  the  King,  one  summer  morn, 

Blew  a blast  on  his  bugle-horn, 

Sending  his  signal  through  the  land  of 
Drontheim. 

And  to  the  Hus-Ting  held  at  Mere 

Gathered  the  farmers  far  and  near, 

With  their  war  weapons  ready  to  confront 
him. 

Ploughing  under  the  morning  star, 

Old  Iron- Beard  in  Yriar 

Heard  the  summons,  chuckling  with  a 
low  laugh. 

He  wiped  the  sweat-drops  from  his 
brow. 

Unharnessed  his  horses  from  the 
plough, 

And  clattering  came  on  horseback  to 
King  Olaf. 

He  was  the  churliest  of  the  churls  ; 

Little  he  cared  for  king  or  earls  ; 

Bitter  as  home-brewed  ale  were  his  foam- 
ing passions. 

Hodden-gray  was  the  garb  he  wore, 

And  by  the  Hammer  of  Thor  he 
swore  ; 

He  hated  the  narrow  town,  and  all  its 
fashions. 

But  he  loved  the  freedom  of  his 
farm, 

His  ale  at  night,  by  the  fireside 
warm, 

Gudrun  his  daughter,  with  her  flaxen 
tresses. 


252 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


He  loved  his  horses  and  his  herds, 
The  smell  of  the  earth,  and  the  song 
of  birds, 

His  well- filled  barns,  his  brook  with  its 
water-cresses. 

Huge  and  cumbersome  was  his  frame ; 
His  beard,  from  which  he  took  his 
name. 

Frosty  and  fierce,  like  that  of  Hymer  the 
Giant. 

So  at  the  Hus-Ting  he  appeared, 
The  farmer  of  Yriar,  Iron- Beard, 

On  horseback,  in  an  attitude  defiant. 

And  to  King  Olaf  he  cried  aloud, 
Out  of  the  middle  of  the  crowd, 
That  tossed  about  him  like  a stormy 
ocean  : 

“ Such  sacrifices  shalt  thou  bring  ; 
To  Odin  and  to  Thor,  0 King, 

As  other  kings  have  done  in  their  devo- 
tion ! ” 

King  Olaf  answered  : “ I command 
This  land  to  be  a Christian  land  ; 
Here  is  my  Bishop  who  the  folk  bap- 
tizes ! 

“ But  if  you  ask  me  to  restore 
Your  sacrifices,  stained  with  gore, 
Then  will  1 offer  human  sacrifices  ! 

“Not  slaves  and  peasants  shall  they 
be, 

But  men  of  note  and  high  degree, 
Such  men  as  Orm  of  Lyra  and  Kar  of 
Gryting  ! ” 

Then  to  their  Temple  strode  he  in, 
And  loud  behind  him  heard  the  din 
Of  his  men-at-arms  and  the  peasants 
fiercely  fighting. 

There  in  the  Temple,  carved  in  wood, 
The  image  of  great  Odin  stood. 

And  other  gods,  with  Thor  supreme 
among  them. 

King  Olaf  smote  them  with  the 
blade 

Of  his  huge  war-axe,  gold  inlaid, 
And  downward  shattered  to  the  pavement 
flung  them. 


At  the  same  moment  rose  without, 

From  the  contending  crowd,  a shout, 
A mingled  sound  of  triumph  and  of  wail- 
ing. 

And  there  upon  the  trampled  plain 

The  farmer  Iron-Beard  lay  slain, 
Midway  between  the  assailed  and  the 
assailing. 

King  Olaf  from  the  doorway  spoke  : 

“ Choose  ye  between  two  things,  my 
folk, 

To  be  baptized  or  given  up  to  slaughter  ! ” 

And  seeing  their  leader  stark  and 
dead, 

The  people  with  a murmur  said, 

“ 0 King,  baptize  us  with  thy  holy 
water  ” ; 

So  all  the  Drontheim  land  became 

A Christian  land  in  name  and  fame, 
In  the  old  gods  no  more  believing  and 
trusting. 

And  as  a blood-atonement,  soon 

King  Olaf  wed  the  fair  Gudrun  ; 
And  thus  in  peace  ended  the  Drontheim 
Hus-Ting  ! 


VIII. 

GUDRUN. 

On  King  Olafs  bridal  night 
Shines  the  moon  with  tender  light. 
And  across  the  chamber  streams 
Its  tide  of  dreams. 

At  the  fatal  midnight  hour. 

When  all  evil  things  have  power. 
In  the  glimmer  of  the  moon 
Stands  Gudrun. 

Close  against  her  heaving  breast. 
Something  in  her  hand  is  pressed  ; 
Like  an  icicle,  its  sheen 
Is  cold  and  keen. 

On  the  cairn  are  fixed  her  eyes 
Where  her  murdered  father  lies. 
And  a voice  remote  and  drear 
She  seems  to  hear. 

What  a bridal  night  is  this  ! 

Cold  will  be  the  dagger’s  kiss ; 


THE  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF. 


253 


Laden  with  the  chill  of  death 
Is  its  breath. 

Like  the  drifting  snow  she  sweeps 
To  the  couch  where  Olaf  sleeps  ; 
Suddenly  he  wakes  and  stirs, 

His  eyes  meet  hers. 

“ What  is  that,”  King  Olaf  said, 

“ Gleams  so  bright  above  thy  head  ? 
Wherefore  standest  thou  so  white 
In  pale  moonlight  ? ” 

“ ’ T is  the  bodkin  that  I wear 
When  at  night  I bind  my  hair  ; 

It  woke  me  falling  on  the  floor  ; 

’T  is  nothing  more.” 

1 ‘ Forests  have  ears,  and  fields  have  eyes  ; 
Often  treachery  lurking  lies 
Underneath  the  fairest  hair  ! 

Gudrun  beware  ! ” 

Ere  the  earliest  peep  of  morn 
Blew  King  Olaf  s bugle-horn  ; 

And  forever  sundered  ride 
Bridegroom  and  bride  ! 


IX. 

THANGBRAND  THE  PRIEST. 

Short  of  stature,  large  of  limb, 

Burly  face  and  russet  beard, 

All  the  women  stared  at  him, 

When  in  Iceland  he  appeared. 

“ Look  ! ” they  said, 

With  nodding  head, 

“ There  goes  Thangbrand,  Olaf  s Priest.” 

All  the  prayers  he  knew  by  rote, 

He  could  preach  like  Chrysostome, 

From  the  Fathers  he  could  quote, 

He  had  even  been  at  Rome. 

A learned  clerk, 

A man  of  mark, 

Was  this  Thangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest. 

Fie  was  quarrelsome  and  loud, 

And  impatient  of  control, 

Boisterous  in  the  market  crowd, 
Boisterous  at  the  wassail-bowl, 
Everywhere 

Would  drink  and  swear, 

Swaggering  Thangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest. 

« 


In  his  house  this  malcontent 
Could  the  King  no  longer  bear, 

So  to  Iceland  he  was  sent 

To  convert  the  heathen  there, 

And  away 
One  summer  day 

Sailed  this  Thangbrand,  Olaf  s Priest. 

There  in  Iceland,  o’er  their  books 
Pored  the  people  day  and  night, 

But  he  did  not  like  their  looks, 

Nor  the  songs  they  used  to  write. 

‘ ‘ All  this  rhyme 
Is  waste  of  time  ! ” 

Grumbled  Thangbrand,  Olaf  s Priest. 

To  the  alehouse,  where  he  sat, 

Came  the  Scalds  and  Saga-men  ; 

Is  it  to  be  wondered  at, 

That  they  quarrelled  now  and  then, 
When  o’er  his  beer 
Began  to  leer 

Drunken  Thangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest  ? 

All  the  folk  in  Altafiord 

Boasted  of  their  island  grand  ; 

Saj'ing  in  a single  word, 

“ Iceland  is  the  finest  land 
That  the  sun 
Doth  shine  upon  ! ” 

Loud  laughed  Thangbrand,  Olaf  s Priest. 

And  he  answered  : “ What ’s  the  use 
Of  this  bragging  up  and  down, 

When  three  women  and  one  goose 
Make  a market  in  your  town  ! ” 1 

Every  Scald 
Satires  scrawled 

On  poor  TRangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest. 

Something  worse  they  did  than  that ; 

And  what  vexed  him  most  of  all 
Was  a figure  in  shovel  hat, 

Drawn  in  charcoal  on  the  wall  ; 

With  words  that  go 
Sprawling  below, 

“ This  is  Thangbrand,  Olafs  Priest.” 

Hardly  knowing  what  he  did, 

Then  he  smote  them  might  and  main, 
Thorvald  Yeile  and  Veterlid 
Lay  there  in  the  alehouse  slain. 

“ To-day  we  are  gold, 

To-morrow  mould  ! ” 

Muttered  Thangbrand,  Olaf’s  Priest. 

Much  in  fear  of  axe  and  rope, 

Back  to  Norway  sailed  he  then. 


254 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


“ 0,  King  Olaf  ! little  hope 
Is  there  of  these  Iceland  men  ! ” 
Meekly  said, 

With  bending  head, 

Pious  Thangbrand,  Olaf  s Priest. 


x. 

RAUD  THE  STRONG. 

(<  All  the  old  gods  are  dead, 

All  the  wild  warlocks  fled  ; 

But  the  White  Christ  lives  and  reigns, 
And  throughout  my  wide  domains 
His  Gospel  shall  be  spread  ! ” 

On  the  Evangelists 
Thus  swore  King  Olaf. 

But  still  in  dreams  of  the  night 
Beheld  he  the  crimson  light, 

And  heard  the  voice  that  defied 
Him  who  was  crucified, 

And  challenged  him  to  the  fight. 

To  Sigurd  the  Bishop 
King  Olaf  confessed  it. 

And  Sigurd  the  Bishop  said, 

“ The  old  gods  are  not  dead, 

For  the  great  Thor  still  reigns, 

And  among  the  Jarls  and  Thanes 
The  old  witchcraft  still  is  spread.” 
Thus  to  King  Olaf 
Said  Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

“Far  north  in  the  Sal  ten  Fiord, 

By  rapine,  fire,  and  sword, 

Lives  the  Viking,  Baud  the  Strong  ; 
All  the  Godoe  Isles  belong 
To  him  and  his  heathen  horde.” 

Thus  went  on  speaking 
Sigurd  the  Bishop. 

“A  warlock,  a wizard  is  he, 

And  lord  of  the  wind  and  the  sea  ; 

And  whichever  way  he  sails, 

He  has  ever  favoring  gales, 

By  his  craft  in  sorcery.” 

Here  the  sign  of  the  cross 
Made  devoutly  King  Olaf. 

“ With  rites  that  we  both  abhor, 

He  worships  Odin  and  Thor  ; 

So  it  cannot  yet  be  said, 

That  all  the  old  gods  are  dead, 

And  the  warlocks  are  no  more,” 
Flushing  with  anger 
Said  Sigurd  the  Bishop. 


Then  King  Olaf  cried  aloud  : 

“ I will  talk  with  this  mighty  Baud, 
And  along  the  Salten  Fiord 
Preach  the  Gospel  with  my  sword, 

Or  be  brought  back  in  my  shroud  ! ” 
So  northward  from  Drontlieim 
Sailed  King  Olaf  j 


XI. 

BISHOP  SIGURD  AT  SALTEN  FIORD. 

Loud  the  angry  wind  was  wailing 
As  King  Olaf  s ships  came  sailing 
Northward  out  of  Drontheim  haven 
To  the  mouth  of  Salten  Fiord. 

Though  the  flying  sea-spray  drenches 
Fore  and  aft  the  rowers’  benches, 

Not  a single  heart  is  craven 

Of  the  champions  there  on  board. 

All  without  the  Fiord  was  quiet, 

But  within  it  storm  and  riot, 

Such  as  on  his  Viking  cruises 

Baud  the  Strong  was  wont  to  ride. 

And  the  sea  through  all  its  tide -ways 
Swept  the  reeling  vessels  sideways, 

As  the  leaves  are  swept  through  sluices, 
When  the  flood-gates  open  wide. 

“ ’T  is  the  warlock  ! ’t  is  the  demon 
Baud  ! ” cried  Sigurd  to  the  seamen  ; 

“ But  the  Lord  is  not  affrighted 
By  the  witchcraft  of  his  foes.” 

To  the  ship’s  bow  he  ascended, 

By  his  choristers  attended, 

Bound  him  were  the  tapers  lighted, 

And  the  sacred  incense  rose. 

On  the  bow  stood  Bishop  Sigurd, 

In  his  robes,  as  one  transfigured, 

And  the  Crucifix  he  planted 

High  amid  the  rain  and  mist. 

Then  with  holy  water  sprinkled 
All  the  ship  ; the  mass- bells  tinkled  ; 
Loud  the  monks  around  him  chanted, 
Loud  he  read  the  Evangelist. 

As  into  the  Fiord  they  darted, 

On  each  side  the  water  parted  ; 

Down  a path  like  silver  molten 

Steadily  rowed  King  Olafs  ships  ; 


THE  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF. 


255 


Steadily  burned  all  night  the  tapers, 

And  the  White  Christ  through  the  vapors 
Gleamed  across  the  Fiord  of  Salten, 

As  through  John’s  Apocalypse,  — 

Till  at  last  they  reached  Raud’s  dwelling 
On  the  little  isle  of  Gelling  ; 

Not  a guard  was  at  the  doorway, 

Not  a glimmer  of  light  was  seen. 

But  at  anchor,  carved  and  gilded, 

Lay  the  dragon -ship  he  builded  ; 

’T  was  the  grandest  ship  in  Norway, 
With  its  crest  and  scales  of  green. 

Up  the  stairway,  softly  creeping, 

To  the  loft  where  Raud  was  sleeping, 
With  their  fists  they  burst  asunder 
Bolt  and  bar  that  held  the  door. 

Drunken  with  sleep  and  ale  they  found 
him, 

Dragged  him  from  his  bed  and  bound  him, 
While  he  stared  with  stupid  wonder, 

At  the  look  and  garb  they  wore. 

Then  King  Olaf  said  : “0  Sea-King  ! 
Little  time  have  we  for  speaking, 

Choose  between  the  good  and  evil ; 

Be  baptized,  or  thou  shalt  die  ! 

But  in  scorn  the  heathen  scoffer 
Answered  : “I  disdain  thine  offer  ; 
Neither  fear  I God  nor  Devil ; 

Thee  and  thy  Gospel  I defy  ! ” 

Then  between  his  jaws  distended, 

When  his  frantic  struggles  ended, 
Through  King  Olaf  s horn  an  adder, 

Touched  by  fire,  they  forced  to 
glide. 

Sharp  his  tooth  was  as  an  arrow, 

As  he  gnawed  through  bone  and  marrow  ; 
But  without  a groan  or  shudder, 

Raud  the  Strong  blaspheming  died. 

Then  baptized  they  all  that  region, 
Swarthy  Lap  and  fair  Norwegian, 

Far  as  swims  the  salmon,  leaping, 

Up  the  streams  of  Salten  Fiord. 

In  their  temples  Thor  and  Odin 
Lay  in  dust  and  ashes  trodden, 

As  King  Olaf,  onward  sweeping, 

Preached  the  Gospel  with  his  sword. 


Then  he  took  the  carved  and  gilded 
Dragon-ship  that  Raud  had  builded, 
And  the  tiller  single-handed, 

Grasping,  steered  into  the  main. 

Southward  sailed  the  sea-gulls  o’er  him, 
Southward  sailed  the  ship  that  bore  him, 
Till  at  Drontheim  haven  landed 
Olaf  and  his  crew  again. 


XII. 

KING  OLAF’S  CHRISTMAS. 

At  Drontheim,  Olaf  the  King 
Heard  the  bells  of  Yule-tide  ring, 

As  he  sat  in  his  banquet-hall, 
Drinking  the  nut-brown  ale, 

With  his  bearded  Berserks  hale 
And  tall. 

Three  days  his  Yule-tide  feasts 
He  held  with  Bishops  and  Priests, 

And  his  horn  filled  up  to  the  brim  ; 
But  the  ale  was  never  too  strong, 

Nor  the  Saga-man’s  tale  too  long. 

For  him. 

O’er  his  drinking-horn,  the  sign 
He  made  of  the  cross  divine, 

As  he  drank,  and  muttered  his 
prayers  ; 

But  the  Berserks  evermore 
Made  the  sign  of  the  Hammer  of  Thor 
Over  theirs. 

The  gleams  of  the  fire-light  dance 
Upon  helmet  and  hauberk  and  lance, 
And  laugh  in  the  eyes  of  the  King  ; 
And  he  cries  to  Halfred  the  Scald, 
Gray-bearded,  wrinkled,  and  bald, 

44  Sing  ! ” 

44  Sing  me  a song  divine, 

With  a sword  in  every  line, 

And  this  shall  be  thy  reward.” 

And  he  loosened  the  belt  at  his  waist, 
And  in  front  of  the  singer  placed 
His  sword. 

44  Quern-biter  of  Hakon  the  Good, 
Wherewith  at  a stroke  he  hewed 

The  millstone  through  and  through, 
And  Foot-breadth  of  Thoralfthe  Strong, 
Were  neither  so  broad  nor  so  long, 

Nor  so  true.” 


256 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


Then  the  Scald  took  his  harp  and  sang, 
And  loud  through  the  music  rang 

The  sound  of  that  shining  word  ; 
And  the  harp-strings  a clangor  made, 

As  if  they  were  struck  with  the  blade 
Of  a sword. 

And  the  Berserks  round  about 
Broke  forth  into  a shout 

That  made  the  rafters  ring  : 

They  smote  with  their  lists  on  the  board, 
And  shouted,  “ Long  live  the  Sword, 
And  the  King  ! ” 

But  the  King  said,  “ 0 my  son, 

I miss  the  bright  word  in  one 

Of  thy  measures  and  thy  rhymes.” 
And  Halfred  the  Scald  replied, 

“ In  another ’t  was  multiplied 
Three  times.” 

Then  King  Olaf  raised  the  hilt 
Of  iron,  cross-shaped  and  gilt, 

And  said,  “ Do  not  refuse  ; 

Count  well  the  gain  and  the  loss, 

Thor’s  hammer  or  Christ’s  cross  : 

Choose  ! ” 

And  Halfred  the  Scald  said,  “ This 
In  the  name  of  the  Lord  I kiss, 

Who  on  it  was  crucified  ! ” 

And  a shout  went  round  the  board, 

“ In  the  name  of  Christ  the  Lord, 

Who  died  ! ” 

Then  over  the  waste  of  snows 
The  noonday  sun  uprose, 

Through  the  driving  mists  revealed, 
Like  the  lifting  of  the  Host, 

By  in  cense -clouds  almost 
Concealed. 

On  the  shining  wall  a vast 
And  shadowy  cross  was  cast 

From  the  hilt  of  the  lifted  sword, 
And  in  foaming  cups  of  ale 
The  Berserks  drank  “ Was-hael  ! 

To  the  Lord  ! ” 


XIII. 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  LONG  SERPENT. 

Thorberg  Skafting,  master-builder, 
In  his  ship-yard  by  the  sea, 
Whistling,  said,  “ It  would  bewilder 
Any  man  but  Thorberg  Skafting, 

Any  man  but  me  ! ” 


Near  him  lay  the  Dragon  stranded, 

Built  of  old  byRaud  the  Strong, 
And  King  Olaf  had  commanded 
He  should  build  another  Dragon, 

Twice  as  large  and  long. 

Therefore  whistled  Thorberg  Skafting, 
As  he  sat  with  half- closed  eyes, 

And  his  head  turned  sideways,  drafting 
That  new  vessel  for  King  Olaf 
Twice  the  Dragon’s  size. 

Round  him  busily  hewed  and  hammered 
Mallet  huge  and  heavy  axe  ; 
Workmen  laughed  and  sang  and  clam- 
ored ; 

Whirred  the  wheels,  that  into  rigging 
Spun  the  shining  flax  ! 

All  this  tumult  heard  the  master,  — 

It  was  music  to  his  ear  ; 

Fancy  whispered  all  the  faster, 

“Men  shall  hear  of  Thorberg  Skafting 
For  a hundred  year  ! ” 

Workmen  sweating  at  the  forges 
Fashioned  iron  bolt  and  bar, 

Like  a warlock’s  midnight  orgies 
Smoked  and  bubbled  the  black  caldron 
With  the  boiling  tar. 

Did  the  warlocks  mingle  in  it, 

Thorberg  Skafting,  any  curse  ? 
Could  you  not  be  gone  a minute 
But  some  mischief  must  be  doing, 
Turning  bad  to  worse  ? 

’T  was  an  ill  wind  that  came  wafting, 
From  his  homestead  words  of  woe  ; 
To  his  farm  went  Thorberg  Skafting, 

Oft  repeating  to  his  workmen, 

Build  ye  thus  and  so. 

After  long  delays  returning 

Came  the  master  back  by  night  ; 

To  his  ship-yard  longing,  yearning, 
Hurried  he,  and  did  not  leave  it 
Till  the  morning’s  light. 

“ Come  and  see  my  ship,  my  darling  ! ” 
On  the  morrow  said  the  King  ; 

“ Finished  now  from  keel  to  carling  ; 
Never  yet  was  seen  in  Norway 
Such  a wondrous  thing  ! ” 

In  the  ship-yard,  idly  talking, 

At  the  ship  the  workmen  stared  : 


THE  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF. 


257 


Some  one,  all  their  labor  balking, 

Down  her  sides  had  cut  deep  gashes, 

Not  a plank  was  spared  ! 

“ Death  be  to  the  evil-doer  ! ” 

With  an  oath  King  Olaf  spoke  ; 

“ But  rewards  to  his  pursuer  ! ” 

And  with  wrath  his  face  grew  redder 
Than  his  scarlet  cloak. 

Straight  the  master-builder,  smiling, 
Answered  thus  the  angry  King  : 
Cease  blaspheming  and  reviling, 

Olaf,  it  was  Thorberg  Skafting 
Who  has  done  this  thing  ! ” 

Then  he  chipped  and  smoothed  the  plank- 
ing, 

Till  the  King,  delighted,  swore, 
With  much  lauding  and  much  thanking, 
“ Handsomer  is  now  my  Dragon 
Than  she  was  before  ! ” 

Seventy  ells  and  four  extended 

On  the  grass  the  vessel’s  keel  ; 
High  above  it,  gilt  and  splendid, 

Bose  the  figure-head  ferocious 
With  its  crest  of  steel. 

Then  they  launched  her  from  the  tressels, 
In  the  ship-yard  by  the  sea  ; 

She  was  the  grandest  of  all  vessels, 
Never  ship  was  built  in  Norway 
Half  so  fine  as  she  ! 

The  Long  Serpent  was  she  christened, 
’Mid  the  roar  of  cheer  on  cheer  ! 
They  who  to  the  Saga  listened 
Heard  the  name  of  Thorberg  Skafting 
For  a hundred  year  ! 


XIV. 

THE  CREW  OF  THE  LONG  SERPENT. 

Safe  at  anchor  in  Drontheim  bay 
King  Olaf’s  fleet  assembled  lay, 

And,  striped  with  white  and  blue, 
Downward  fluttered  sail  and  banner, 
As  alights  the  screaming  lanner  ; 
Lustily  cheered,  in  their  wild  manner, 
The  Long  Serpent’s  crew. 

Her  forecastle  man  was  Ulf  the  Red  ; 
Like  a wolfs  was  his  shaggy  head, 

17 


His  teeth  as  large  and  white  ; 

His  beard,  of  gray  and  russet  blended, 
Round  as  a swallow’s  nest  descended  ; 

As  standard-bearer  he  defended 
Olaf  s flag  in  the  fight. 

Near  him  Kolbiorn  had  his  place, 

Like  the  King  in  garb  and  face, 

So  gallant  and  so  hale  ; 

Every  cabin-boy  and  varlet 
Wondered  at  his  cloak  of  scarlet  ; 

Like  a river,  frozen  and  star-lit, 

Gleamed  his  coat  of  mail. 

By  the  bulkhead,  tall  and  dark, 

Stood  Thrand  Rame  of  Thelemark, 

A figure  gaunt  and  grand  ; 

On  his  hairy  arm  imprinted 
Was  an  anchor,  azure-tinted  ; 

Like  Thor’s  hammer,  huge  and  dinted 
Was  his  brawny  hand. 

Einar  Tamberskelver,  bare 
To  the  winds  his  golden  hair, 

By  the  mainmast  stood  ; 

Graceful  was  his  form,  and  slender, 

And  his  eyes  were  deep  and  tender 
As  a woman’s,  in  the  splendor 
Of  her  maidenhood. 

In  the  fore-hold  Biorn  and  Bork 
Watched  the  sailors  at  their  work  : 
Heavens  ! how  they  swore  ! 

Thirty  men  they  each  commanded, 
Iron-sinewed,  horny-handed, 

Shoulders  broad,  and  chests  expanded, 
Tugging  at  the  oar. 

These,  and  many  more  like  these, 

With  King  Olaf  sailed  the  seas, 

Till  the  waters  vast 
Filled  them  with  a vague  devotion, 

With  the  freedom  and  the  motion, 

With  the  roll  and  roar  of  ocean 
And  the  sounding  blast. 

When  they  landed  from  the  fleet, 

How  they  roared  through  Drontheim’s 
street, 

Boisterous  as  the  gale  ! 

How  they  laughed  and  stamped  and 
pounded, 

Till  the  tavern  roof  resounded, 

And  the  host  looked  on  astounded 
As  they  drank  the  ale  ! 


258 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


Never  saw  the  wild  North  Sea 
Such  a gallant  company 
Sail  its  billows  blue  ! 

Never,  while  they  cruised  and  quarrelled, 
Old  King  Gorm,  or  Blue-Tooth  Harald, 
Owned  a ship  so  well  apparelled, 
Boasted  such  a crew  ! 


XY. 

A LITTLE  BIRD  IN  THE  AIR. 

A little  bird  in  the  air 
Is  singing  of  Thyri  the  fair, 

The  sister  of  Svend  the  Dane  ; 

And  the  song  of  the  garrulous  bird 
In  the  streets  of  the  town  is  heard, 

And  repeated  again  and  again. 

Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 

And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

To  King  Burislaf,  it  is  said. 

Was  the  beautiful  Thyri  wed, 

And  a sorrowful  bride  went  she ; 

And  after  a week  and  a day, 

She  has  fled  away  and  away, 

From  his  town  by  the  stormy  sea. 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 

And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

They  say,  that  through  heat  and  through 
cold, 

Through  weald,  they  say,  and  through 
wold, 

By  day  and  by  night,  they  say, 

She  has  fled  ; and  the  gossips  report 
She  has  come  to  King  Olaf  s court, 

And  the  town  is  all  in  dismay. 

Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 

And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

It  is  whispered  King  Olaf  has  seen, 

Has  talked  with  the  beautiful  Queen  ; 

And  they  wonder  how  it  will  end  ; 
For  surely,  if  here  she  remain, 

It  is  war  with  King  Svend  the  Dane, 
And  King  Burislaf  the  Vend  ! 

Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 

And  flee  away  from  each  other. 

0,  greatest  wonder  of  all  ! 

It  is  published  in  hamlet  and  hall, 

It  roars  like  a flame  that  is  fanned  ! 
The  King  — yes,  Olaf  the  King  — 

Has  wedded  her  with  his  ring, 

And  Thyri  is  Queen  in  the  land  ! 
Hoist  up  your  sails  of  silk, 

And  flee  away  from  each  other. 


XYI. 

queen  thyri  and  the  angelica 

STALKS. 

Northward  over  Drontheim, 

Flew  the  clamorous  sea-gulls, 

Sang  the  lark  and  linnet 
From  the  meadows  green  ; 

Weeping  in  her  chamber, 

Lonely  and  unhappy, 

Sat  the  Drottning  Thyri, 

Sat  King  Olafs  Queen. 

In  at  all  the  windows 
Streamed  the  pleasant  sunshine, 

On  the  roof  above  her 
Softly  cooed  the  dove  ; 

But  the  sound  she  heard  not. 

Nor  the  sunshine  heeded, 

For  the  thoughts  of  Thyri 
Were  not  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  King  Olaf  entered, 

Beautiful  as  morning, 

Like  the  sun  at  Easter 
Shone  his  happy  face  ; 

In  his  hand  he  carried 
Angelicas  uprooted, 

With  delicious  fragrance 
Filling  all  the  place. 

Like  a rainy  midnight 
Sat  the  Drottning  Thyri, 

Even  the  smile  of  Olaf 

Could  not  cheer  her  gloom  ; 

Nor  the  stalks  he  gave  her 
With  a gracious  gesture, 

And  with  words  as  pleasant 
As  their  own  perfume. 

In  her  hands  he  placed  them, 

And  her  jewelled  fingers 
Through  the  green  leaves  glistened 
Like  the  dews  of  morn  ; 

But  she  cast  them  from  her. 
Haughty  and  indignant, 

On  theKoor  she  threw  them 
With  a look  of  scorn. 

“ Richer  presents,”  said  she, 

“ Gave  King  Harald  Gormson 


THE  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF. 


259 


To  the  Queen,  my  mother, 

Than  such  worthless  weeds ; 

“When  he  ravaged  Norway, 
Laying  waste  the  kingdom, 
Seizing  scatt  and  treasure 
For  her  royal  needs. 

“ But  thou  darest  not  venture 
Through  the  Sound  to  Yendland, 
My  domains  to  rescue 
From  King  Burislaf ; 

“Lest  King  Svend  of  Denmark, 
Forked  Beard,  my  brother, 

Scatter  all  thy  vessels 
As  the  wind  the  chaff.” 

Then  up  sprang  King  Olaf, 

Like  a reindeer  bounding, 

With  an  oath  he  answered 
Thus  the  luckless  Queen  : 

“ Never  yet  did  Olaf 
Fear  King  Svend  of  Denmark  ; 
This  right  hand  shall  hale  him 
By  his  forked  chin  ! ” 

Then  he  left  the  chamber, 
Thundering  through  the  doorway, 
Loud  his  steps  resounded 
Down  the  outer  stair. 

Smarting  with  the  insult, 
Through  the  streets  of  Drontheim 
Strode  he  red  and  wrathful, 

With  his  stately  air. 

All  his  ships  he  gathered. 
Summoned  all  his  forces, 

Making  his  war  levy 
In  the  region  round  • 

Down  the  coast  of  Norway, 

Like  a flock  of  sea-gulls, 

Sailed  the  fleet  of  Olaf 

Through  the  Danish  Sound. 

With  his  own  hand  fearless, 
Steered  he  the  Long  Serpent, 
Strained  the  creaking  cordage, 
Bent  each  boom  and  gaff ; 

fill  in  Yendland  landing, 

The  domains  of  Thyri 
He  redeemed  and  rescued 
From  King  Burislaf. 


Then  said  Olaf,  laughing, 
“Not  ten  yoke  of  oxen 
Have  the  power  to  draw  us 
Like  a woman’s  hair  ! 

“Now  will  I confess  it, 
Better  things  are  jewels 
Than  angelica  stalks  are 
For  a Queen  to  wear.” 


XVII. 

KING  SVEND  OF  THE  FORKED  BEARD. 

Loudly  the  sailors  cheered 
Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard, 

As  with  his  fleet  he  steered 
Southward  to  Yendland  ; 

Where  with  their  courses  hauled 
All  were  together  called, 

Under  the  Isle  of  Svald 
Near  to  the  mainland. 

After  Queen  Gunhild’s  death, 

So  the  old  Saga  saith, 

Plighted  King  Svend  his  faith 
To  Sigrid  the  Haughty  ; 

And  to  avenge  his  bride, 

Soothing  her  wounded  pride, 

Over  the  waters  wide 
King  Olaf  sought  he. 

Still  on  her  scornful  face, 

Blushing  with  deep  disgrace, 

Bore  she  the  crimson  trace 
Of  Olaf  s gauntlet ; 

Like  a malignant  star, 

Blazing  in  heaven  afar, 

Red  shone  the  angry  scar 
Under  her  frontlet. 

Oft  to  King  Svend  she  spake, 

“ For  thine  own  honor’s  sake 
Shalt  thou  swift  vengeance  take 
On  the  vile  coward  ! ” 

Until  the  King  at  last, 

Gusty  and  overcast, 

Like  a tempestuous  blast 
Threatened  and  lowered. 

Soon  as  the  Spring  appeared, 
Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard 
Hicrh  his  red  standard  reared, 
Eager  for  battle  ; 

While  every  warlike  Dane, 

Seizing  his  arms  again, 


260 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


Left  all  unsown  the  grain, 
Unhoused  the  cattle. 

Likewise  the  Swedish  King 
Summoned  in  haste  a Thing, 
Weapons  and  men  to  bring 
In  aid  of  Denmark  ; 

Eric  the  Norseman,  too, 

As  the  war-tidings  hew, 

Sailed  with  a chosen  crew 
From  Lapland  and  Finmark. 

So  upon  Easter  day 
Sailed  the  three  kings  away, 

Out  of  the  sheltered  bay, 

In  the  bright  season  ; 

With  them  Earl  Sigvald  came, 
Eager  for  spoil  and  fame  ; 

Pity  that  such  a name 
Stooped  to  such  treason  ! 

Safe  under  Svald  at  last, 

Now  were  their  anchors  cast, 
Safe  from  the  sea  and  blast, 
Plotted  the  three  kings  ; 
While,  with  a base  intent, 
Southward  Earl  Sigvald  went, 
On  a foul  errand  bent, 

Unto  the  Sea-kings. 

Thence  to  hold  on  his  course, 
Unto  King  Olaf’ s force, 

Lying  within  the  hoarse 
Mouths  of  Stet-haven  ; 

Him  to  ensnare  and  bring, 

Unto  the  Danish  king, 

Who  his  dead  corse  would  fling 
Forth  to  the  raven  ! 


XVIII. 

KING  OLAF  AND  EARL  SIGVALD. 

On  the  gray  sea-sands 
King  Olaf  stands, 

Northward  and  seaward 
He  points  with  his  hands. 

With  eddy  and  whirl 
The  sea-tides  curl, 

Washing  the  sandals 
Of  Sigvald  the  Earl. 

The  mariners  shout, 

The  ships  swing  about, 

The  yards  are  all  hoisted, 

The  sails  flutter  out. 


The  war-horns  are  played, 

The  anchors  are  weighed, 

Like  moths  in  the  distance 
The  sails  flit  and  fade. 

The  sea  is  like  lead, 

The  harbor  lies  dead, 

As  a corse  on  the  sea-shore, 
Whose  spirit  has  fled  ! 

On  that  fatal  day, 

The  histories  say, 

Seventy  vessels 
Sailed  out  of  the  bay. 

But  soon  scattered  wide 
O’er  the  billows  they  ride, 
While  Sigvald  and  Olaf 
Sail  side  by  side. 

Cried  the  Earl : “ Follow  me  ! 
I your  pilot  will  be, 

For  I know  all  the  channels 
Where  flows  the  deep  sea  ! ” 

So  into  the  strait 
Where  his  foes  lie  in  wait, 
Gallant  King  Olaf 
Sails  to  his  fate  ! 

Then  the  sea-fog  veils 
The  ships  and  their  sails  ; 
Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty, 
Thy  vengeance  prevails  ! 


XIX. 

KING  OLAF’s  WAR-HORNS. 

“ Strike  the  sails  ! ” King  Olaf  said  ; 

“ Never  shall  men  of  mine  take  flight ; 
Never  away  from  battle  I fled, 

Never  away  from  my  foes  ! 

Let  God  dispose 
Of  my  life  in  the  fight  ! ” 

“ Sound  the  horns  ! ” said  Olaf  the  King ; 
And  suddenly  through  the  drifting  brume 
The  blare  of  the  horns  began  to  ring, 
Like  the  terrible  trumpet  shock 
Of  Regnarock, 

On  the  Day  of  Doom  ! 

Louder  and  louder  the  war-horns  sang 
Over  the  level  floor  of  the  flood  ; 


THE  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF. 


261 


All  the  sails  came  down  with  a clang, 
And  there  in  the  mist  overhead 
The  sun  hung  red 
As  a drop  of  blood. 

Drifting  down  on  the  Danish  fleet 
Three  together  the  ships  were  lashed, 

So  that  neither  should  turn  and  retreat ; 
In  the  midst,  but  in  front  of  the  rest 
The  burnished  crest 
Of  the  Serpent  flashed. 

King  Olaf  stood  on  the  quarter-deck, 
With  bow  of  ash  and  arrows  of  oak, 

His  gilded  shield  was  without  a fleck, 
His  helmet  inlaid  with  gold, 

And  in  many  a fold 
Hung  his  crimson  cloak. 

On  the  forecastle  Ulf  the  Red 
Watched  the  lashing  of  the  ships  ; 

* ‘ If  the  Serpent  lie  so  far  ahead, 

We  shall  have  hard  work  of  it  here, 

Said  he  with  a sneer 
On  his  bearded  lips. 

King  Olaf  laid  an  arrow  on  string, 

“ Have  I a coward  on  board  ? ” said  he. 
“ Shoot  it  another  way,  0 King  ! ” 
Sullenly  answered  Ulf, 

The  old  sea-wolf ; 

“ You  have  need  of  me  ! ” 

In  front  came  Svend,  the  King  of  the 
Danes, 

Sweeping  down  with  his  fifty  rowers  ; 

To  the  right,  the  Swedish  king  with  his 
thanes ; 

And  on  board  of  the  Iron  Beard 
Earl  Eric  steered 
To  the  left  with  his  oars. 

“These  soft  Danes  and  Swedes,”  said  the 
King, 

“ At  home  with  their  wives  had  better 
stay, 

Than  come  within  reach  of  my  Serpent’s 
sting  : 

But  where  Eric  the  Norseman  leads 
Heroic  deeds 
Will  be  done  to-day  ! ” 

Then  as  together  the  vessels  crashed, 
Eric  severed  the  cables  of  hide, 

With  which  King  Olaf’s  ships  were 
lashed, 


And  left  them  to  drive  and  drift 
With  the  currents  swift 
Of  the  outward  tide. 

Louder  the  war-horns  growl  and  snarl, 
Sharper  the  dragons  bite  and  sting  ! 
Eric  the  son  of  Hakon  Jail 
A death -drink  salt  as  the  sea 
Pledges  to  thee, 

Olaf  the  King  ! 


xx. 

EINAR  TAMBERSKELVER. 

It  was  Einar  Tamberskelver 
Stood  beside  the  mast ; 

From  his  yew-bow,  tipped  with  silver, 
Flew  the  arrows  fast ; 

Aimed  at  Eric  unavailing, 

As  he  sat  concealed, 

Half  behind  the  quarter-railing, 

Half  behind  his  shield. 

First  an  arrow  struck  the  tiller, 

Just  above  his  head  ; 

“Sing,  0 Eyvind  Skaldaspiller, ” 

Then  Earl  Eric  said. 

“ Sing  the  song  of  Hakon  dying, 

Sing  his  funeral  wail ! ” 

And  another  arrow  flying 
Grazed  his  coat  of  mail. 

Turning  to  a Lapland  yeoman, 

As  the  arrow  passed, 

Said  Earl  Eric,  “Shoot  that  bowman 
Standing  by  the  mast.” 

Sooner  than  the  word  was  spoken 
Flew  the  yeoman’s  shaft  ; 

Einar’s  bow  in  twain  was  broken, 

Einar  only  laughed. 

“ What  was  that  ? ” said  Olaf,  standing 
On  the  quarter-deck. 

“ Something  heard  I like  the  stranding 
Of  a shattered  wreck.” 

Einar  then,  the  arrow  taking 
From  the  loosened  string, 

Answered,  “That  was  Norway  breaking 
From  thy  hand,  0 King  ! ” 

“ Thou  art  but  a poor  diviner,” 
Straightway  Olaf  said  ; 

“Take  my  bow,  and  swifter,  Einar, 

Let  thy  shafts  be  sped.” 


262 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN". 


Of  his  bows  the  fairest  choosing, 
Reached  he  from  above  ; 

Einar  saw  the  blood- drops  oozing* 
Through  his  iron  glove. 

But  the  bow  was  thin  and  narrow  ; 
At  the  first  assay, 

O’er  its  head  he  drew  the  arrow. 
Flung  the  bow  away  ; 

Said,  with  hot  and  angry  temper 
Flushing  in  his  cheek, 

“ Olaf  ! for  so  great  a Kamper 
Are  thy  bows  too  weak  ! ” 

Then,  with  smile  of  joy  defiant 
On  his  beardless  lip, 

Scaled  he,  light  and  self-reliant, 
Eric’s  dragon-ship. 

Loose  his  golden  locks  were  flowing, 
Bright  his  armor  gleamed  ; 

Like  Saint  Michael  overthrowing 
Lucifer  he  seemed. 


XXI. 

KING  OLAF’s  DEATH-DRINK. 

All  day  has  the  battle  raged, 

All  day  have  the  ships  engaged, 

But  not  yet  is  assuaged 

The  vengeance  of  Eric  the  Earl. 

The  decks  with  blood  are  red, 

The  arrows  of  death  are  sped, 

The  ships  are  filled  with  the  dead, 

And  the  spears  the  champions  hurl. 

They  drift  as  wrecks  on  the  tide, 

The  grappling-irons  are  plied, 

The  boarders  climb  up  the  side, 

The  shouts  are  feeble  and  few. 

Ah  ! never  shall  Norway  again 

See  her  sailors  come  back  o’er  the  main  ; 

They  all  lie  wounded  or  slain, 

Or  asleep  in  the  billows  blue  ! 

On  the  deck  stands  Olaf  the  King, 
Around  him  whistle  and  sing 
The  spears  that  the  foemen  fling, 

And  the  stones  they  hurl  with  their 
hands. 

In  the  midst  of  the  stones  and  the  spears, 
Kolbiorn,  the  marshal,  appears, 

His  shield  in  the  air  he  uprears, 

By  the  side  of  King  Olaf  he  stands. 


Over  the  slippery  wreck 
Of  the  Long  Serpent’s  deck 
Sweeps  Eric  with  hardly  a check, 

His  lips  with  anger  are  pale  ; 

He  h ;ws  with  his  axe  at  the  mast, 

Till  it  falls,  with  the  sails  overcast, 
Like  a snow-covered  pine  in  the  vast 
Dim  forests  of  Orkadale. 

Seeking  King  Olaf  then, 

He  rushes  aft  with  his  men, 

As  a hunter  into  the  den 

Of  the  bear,  when  he  stands  at  bay. 

“ Remember  Jarl  Hakon  ! ” he  cries  ; 
When  lo  ! on  his  wondering  eyes, 

Two  kingly  figures  arise, 

Two  Olafs  in  warlike  array  ! 

Then  Kolbiorn  speaks  in  the  ear 
Of  King  Olaf  a word  of  cheer, 

In  a whisper  that  none  may  hear, 

W ith  a smile  on  his  tremulous  lip  ; 

Two  shields  raised  high  in  the  air, 

Two  flashes  of  golden  hair, 

Two  scarlet  meteors’  glare, 

And  both  have  leaped  from  the  ship. 

Earl  Eric’s  men  in  the  boats 
Seize  Kolbiorn’ s shield  as  it  floats, 

And  cry,  from  their  hairy  throats, 

“ See  1 it  is  Olaf  the  King  ! ” 

While  far  on  the  opposite  side 
Floats  another  shield  on  the  tide, 

Like  a jewel  set  in  the  wide 
Sea-current’s  eddying  ring. 

There  is  told  a wonderful  tale, 

How  the  King  stripped  off  his  mail, 
Like  leaves  of  the  brown  sea-kale, 

As  he  swam  beneath  the  main  ; 

But  the  young  grew  old  and  gray, 

And  never,  by  night  or  by  day, 

In  his  kingdom  of  Norroway 
Was  King  Olaf  seen  again  ! 


XXII. 

THE  NUN  OF  NIDAROS. 

In  the  convent  of  Drontheim, 
Alone  in  her  chamber 
Knelt  Astrid  the  Abbess, 

At  midnight,  adoring, 


THE  SAGA  OF  KING  OLAF. 


263 


Beseeching,  entreating 
The  Virgin  and  Mother. 

She  heard  in  the  silence 
The  voice  of  one  speaking, 
"Without  in  the  darkness, 

In  gusts  of  the  night- wind 
Now  louder,  now  nearer, 
Now  lost  in  the  distance. 

The  voice  of  a stranger 
It  seemed  as  she  listened, 
Of  some  one  who  answered, 
Beseeching,  imploring, 

A cry  from  afar  off 
She  could  not  distinguish. 


‘ c Thou  art  a phantom, 

A shape  of  the  sea-mist, 

A shape  of  the  brumal 
Rain,  and  the  darkness 
Fearful  and  formless  ; 

Day  dawns  and  thou  art  not  ! 

‘ £ The  dawn  is  not  distant, 
Nor  is  the  night  starless  ; 
Love  is  eternal  ! 

God  is  still  God,  and 
His  faith  shall  not  fail  us  ; 
Christ  is  eternal !” 


INTERLUDE. 


The  voice  of  Saint  John, 

The  beloved  disciple, 

Who  wandered  and  waited 
The  Master’s  appearance. 
Alone  in  the  darkness, 
Unsheltered  and  friendless. 

££  It  is  accepted 
The  angry  defiance, 

The  challenge  of  battle  ! 

It  is  accepted, 

But  not  with  the  weapons 
Of  war  that  thou  wieldest  ! 

“ Cross  against  corselet, 

Love  against  hatred, 
Peace-cry  for  war-cry  ! 
Patience  is  powerful 
He  that  o’ereometh 
Hath  power  o’er  the  nations  ! 

“ As  torrents  in  summer, 
Half  dried  in  their  channels, 
Suddenly  rise,  though  the 
Sky  is  still  cloudless, 

For  rain  has  been  falling 
Far  off  at  their  fountains  ; 

So  hearts  that  are  fainting 
Grow  full  to  o’erflowing, 

And  they  that  behold  it 
Marvel,  and  know  not 
That  God  at  their  fountains 
Far  olf  has  been  raining  ! 

‘ 1 Stronger  than  steel 
Is  the  sword  of  the  Spirit ; 
Swifter  than  arrows 
The  light  of  the  truth  is, 
Greater  than  anger 
Is  love,  and  subdueth  ! 


A strain  of  music  closed  the  tale, 

A low,  monotonous,  funeral  wail, 

That  with  its  cadence,  wild  and  sweet, 
Made  the  long  Saga  more  complete. 

££  Thank  God,”  the  Theologian  said, 

£ £ The  reign  of  violence  is  dead, 

Or  dying  surely  from  the  world  ; 

While  Love  triumphant  reigns  instead, 
And  in  a brighter  sky  o’erhead 
His  blessed  banners  are  unfurled. 

And  most  of  all  thank  God  for  this  : 

The  war  and  waste  of  clashing  creeds 
Now  end  in  words,  and  not  in  deeds, 
And  no  one  suffers  loss,  or  bleeds, 

For  thoughts  that  men  call  heresies. 

a I stand  without  here  in  the  porch, 

I hear  the  bell’s  melodious  din, 

I hear  the  organ  peal  within, 

I hear  the  prayer,  with  words  that 
scorch 

Like  sparks  from  an  inverted  torch, 

I hear  the  sermon  upon  sin, 

With  threatenings  of  the  last  account. 
And  all,  translated  in  the  air, 

Reach  me  but  as  our  dear  Lord’s  Prayc~ 
And  as  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount. 

/ 

“ Must  it  be  Calvin,  and  not  Christ/ 
Must  it  be  Athanasian  creeds, 

Or  holy  water,  books,  and  beads  ? 

Must  struggling  souls  remain  content 
With  councils  and  decrees  of  Trent  ? 
And  can  it  be  enough  for  these 
The  Christian  Church  the  year  embalms 
With  evergreens  and  boughs  of  palms, 
And  fills  the  air  with  litanies  ? 

££  I know  that  yonder  Pharisee 
Thanks  God  that  he  is  not  like  me  ; 


2G4 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


In  my  humiliation  dressed, 

I only  stand  and  beat  my  breast, 

And  pray  for  human  charity. 

“ Not  to  one  church  alone,  but  seven, 
The  voice  prophetic  spake  from  heaven  ; 
And  unto  each  the  promise  came, 
Diversified,  but  still  the  same  ; 

For  him  that  overcometh  are 
The  new  name  written  on  the  stone, 

The  raiment  white,  the  crown,  the  throne, 
And  I will  give  him  the  Morning  Star  ! 

“Ah  ! to  how  many  Faith  has  been 
No  evidence  of  things  unseen, 

But  a d’im  shadow,  that  recasts 
The  creed  of  the  Phantasiasts, 

For  whom  no  Man  of  Sorrows  died, 

For  whom  the  Tragedy  Divine 
Was  but  a symbol  and  a sign, 

And  Christ  a phantom  crucified  ! 

“For  others  a diviner  creed 
Is  living  in  the  life  they  lead. 

The  passing  of  their  beautiful  feet 
Blesses  the  pavement  of  the  street, 

And  all  their  looks  and  words  repeat 
Old  Fuller’s  saying,  wise  and  sweet, 

N ot  as  a vulture,  but  a dove, 

The  Holy  Ghost  came  from  above. 

“ And  this  brings  back  to  me  a tale 
So  sad  the  hearer  well  may  quail, 

And  question  if  such  things  can  be  ; 

Yet  in  the  chronicles  of  Spain 
Down  the  dark  pages  runs  this  stain, 
And  naught  can  wash  them  white  again, 
So  fearful  is  the  tragedy.” 


THE  THEOLOGIAN’S  TALE. 

TORQUEMADA. 

In  the  heroic  days  when  Ferdinand 
And  Isabella  ruled  the  Spanish  land, 
And  Torquemada,  with  his  subtle  brain, 
Ruled  them,  as  Grand  Inquisitor  of 
Spain, 

In  a great  castle  near  Valladolid, 

Moated  and  high  and  by  fair  woodlands 
hid, 

There  dwelt,  as  from  the  chronicles  we 
learn, 

An  old  Hidalgo  proud  and  taciturn, 
Whose  name  has  perished,  with  his  tow- 
ers of  stone, 

And  all  his  actions  save  this  one  alone  ; | 


This  one,  so  terrible,  perhaps  ’t  were  best 
If  it,  too,  wTere  forgotten  with  the  rest  ; 
Unless,  perchance,  our  eyes  can  see 
therein 

The  martyrdom  triumphant  o’er  the  sin  ; 
A double  picture,  wfith  its  gloom  and 
glow, 

The  splendor  overhead,  the  death  below. 

This  sombre  man  counted  each  day  as  lost 
On  which  his  feet  no  sacred  threshold 
crossed  ; 

And  when  he  chanced  the  passing  Host 
to  meet, 

He  knelt  and  prayed  devoutly  in  the 
street ; 

Oft  he  confessed  ; and  with  each  muti- 
nous thought, 

As  with  wild  beasts  at  Ephesus,  he  fought. 
In  deep  contrition  scourged  himself  in 
Lent, 

Walked  in  processions,  with  his  head 
down  bent, 

At  plays  of  Corpus  Christi  oft  was  seen, 
And  on  Palm  Sunday  bore  his  bough  of 
green. 

His  sole  diversion  was  to  hunt  the  boar 
Through  tangled  thickets  of  the  forest 
hoar, 

Or  with  his  jingling  mules  to  hurry 
down 

To  some  grand  bull-fight  in  the  neigh- 
boring town, 

Or  in  the  crowd  with  lighted  taper  stand, 
When  Jews  were  burned,  or  banished 
from  the  land. 

Then  stirred  within  him  a tumultuous 

j°y ; 

The  demon  whose  delight  is  to  destroy 
Shook  him,  and  shouted  with  a trum- 
pet tone, 

Kill  ! kill  ! and  let  the  Lord  find  out 
his  own  ! ” 

And  now,  in  that  old  castle  in  the  wood, 
His  daughters,  in  the  dawn  of  woman- 
hood, 

Returning  from  their  convent  school, 
had  made 

Resplendent  with  their  bloom  the  forest 
shade, 

Reminding  him  of  their  dead  mother’s 
face, 

When  first  she  came  into  that  gloomy 
place,  — 

A memory  in  his  heart  as  dim  and  sweet 
As  moonlight  in  a solitary  street, 


TORQUEMADA. 


265 


Where  the  same  rays,  that  lift  the  sea, 
are  thrown 

Lovely  hut  powerless  upon  walls  of  stone. 
These  two  fair  daughters  of  a mother 
dead 

Were  all  the  dream  had  left  him  as  it 
fled. 

A joy  at  first,  and  then  a growing  care, 
As  if  a voice  within  him  cried,  “ Be- 
ware ! ” 

A vague  presentiment  of  impending 
doom, 

Like  ghostly  footsteps  in  a vacant  room, 
Haunted  him  day  and  night ; a formless 
fear 

That  death  to  some  one  of  his  house  was 
near, 

With  dark  surmises  of  a hidden  crime, 
Made  life  itself  a death  before  its  time. 
Jealous,  suspicious,  with  no  sense  of 
shame, 

A spy  upon  his  daughters  he  became  ; 
With  velvet  slippers,  noiseless  on  the 
floors, 

He  glided  softly  through  half-open  doors  ; 
Now  in  the  room,  and  now  upon  the 
stair, 

He  stood  beside  them  ere  they  were 
aware  ; 

He  listened  in  the  passage  when  they 
talked, 

He  watched  them  from  the  casement 
when  they  walked, 

Pie  saw  the  gypsy  haunt  the  river’s  side, 
He  saw  the  monk  among  the  cork-trees 
glide  ; 

And,  tortured  by  the  mystery  and  the 
doubt 

Of  some  dark  secret,  past  his  finding  out, 
Baffled  he  paused  ; then  reassured  again 
Pursued  the  flying  phantom  of  his  brain. 
He  watched  them  even  when  they  knelt 
in  church  ; 

And  then,  descending  lower  in  his  search, 
Questioned  the  servants,  and  with  eager 
eyes 

Listened  incredulous  to  their  replies  ; 
The  gypsy  ? none  had  seen  her  in  the 
wood  ! 

The  monk  ? a mendicant  in  search  of 
food  ! 

At  length  the  awful  revelation  came, 
Crushing  at  once  his  pride  of  birth  and 
name, 

The  hopes  his  yearning  bosom  forward 
cast, 


And  the  ancestral  glories  of  the  past  ; 
All  fell  together,  crumbling  in  disgrace, 
A turret  rent  from  battlement  to  base. 
His  daughters  talking  in  the  dead  of 
night 

In  their  own  chamber,  and  without  a 
light, 

Listening,  as  he  was  wont,  he  overheard, 
And  learned  the  dreadful  secret,  word  by 
word  ; 

And  hurrying  from  his  castle,  with  a 
cry 

He  raised  his  hands  to  the  unpitying 
sky, 

Repeating  one  dread  word,  till  bush  and 
tree 

Caught  it,  and  shuddering  answered, 
“ Heresy  ! ” 

Wrapped  in  his  cloak,  his  hat  drawn 
o’er  his  face, 

Now  hurrying  forward,  now  with  lin- 
gering pace, 

He  walked  all  night  the  alleys  of  his 
park, 

With  one  unseen  companion  in  the  dark, 
The  Demon  who  within  him  lay  in  wait, 
And  by  his  presence  turned  his  love  to 
hate, 

Forever  muttering  in  an  undertone, 

“ Kill  ! kill  ! and  let  the  Lord  find  out 
his  own  ! ” 

Upon  the  morrow,  after  early  Mass, 
While  yet  the  dew  was  glistening  on  the 
grass, 

And  all  the  woods  were  musical  with 
birds, 

The  old  Hidalgo,  uttering  fearful  words, 
Walked  homeward  with  the  Priest,  and 
in  his  room 

Summoned  his  trembling  daughters  to 
their  doom. 

When  questioned,  with  brief  answers 
they  replied, 

Nor  when  accused  evaded  or  denied  ; 
Expostulations,  passionate  appeals, 

All  that  the  human  heart  most  fears  or 
feels, 

In  vain  the  Priest  with  earnest  voice  es- 
sayed, 

In  vain  the  father  threatened,  wept,  and 
prayed  ; 

Until  at  last  he  said,  with  haughty 
mien, 

“The  Holy  Office,  then,  must  inter- 
vene ! ” 


266 


TALKS  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


And  now  the  Grand  Inquisitor  of  Spain, 
With  all  the  fifty  horsemen  of  his  train, 
His  awful  name  resounding,  like  the 
blast 

Of  funeral  trumpets,  as  he  onward 
passed, 

Came  to  Valladolid,  and  there  began 
To  harry  the  rich  Jews  with  fire  and 
ban. 

To  him  the  Hidalgo  went,  and  at  the 
gate 

Demanded  audience  on  affairs  of  state, 
And  in  a secret  chamber  stood  before 
A venerable  graybeard  of  fourscore, 
Dressed  in  the  hood  and  habit  of  a friar ; 
Out  of  his  eyes  flashed  a consuming  fire, 
And  in  his  hand  the  mystic  horn  he 
held, 

Which  poison  and  all  noxious  charms 
dispelled. 

He  heard  in  silence  the  Hidalgo’s  tale, 
Then  answered  in  a voice  that  made  him 
quail  : 

“ Son  of  the  Church  ! when  Abraham 
of  old 

To  sacrifice  his  only  son  was  told, 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  nor  protest, 
But  hastened  to  obey  the  Lord’s  behest. 
In  him  it  was  accounted  righteousness  ; 
The  Holy  Church  expects  of  thee  no 
less  ! ” 

A sacred  frenzy  seized  the  father’s  brain, 
And  Mercy  from  that  hour  implored  in 
vain. 

Ah  ! who  will  e’er  believe  the  words  I 
say  ? 

His  daughters  he  accused,  and  the  same 
day 

They  both  were  cast  into  the  dungeon’s 
gloom, 

That  dismal  antechamber  of  the  tomb, 
Arraigned,  condemned,  and  sentenced 
to  the  flame, 

The  secret  torture  and  the  public  shame. 

Then  to  the  Grand  Inquisitor  once  more 
The  Hidalgo  went,  more  eager  than  be- 
fore, 

And  said  : ‘ ‘ When  Abraham  offered  up 
his  son, 

He  clave  the  wood  wherewith  it  might 
be  done. 

By  his  example  taught,  let  me  too  bring 
Wood  from  the  forest  for  my  offering  ! ” 
And  the  deep  voice,  without  a pause, 
replied  : 


“ Son  of  the  Church  ! by  faith  now  jus- 
tified, 

Complete  thy  sacrifice,  even  as  thou 
wilt ; 

The  Church  absolves  thy  conscience  from 
all  guilt  ! ” 

Then  this  most  wretched  father  went 
his  way 

Into  the  woods,  that  round  his  castle 

lay, 

Where  once  his  daughters  in  their  child- 
hood played 

With  their  young  mother  in  the  sun 
and  shade. 

Now  all  the  leaves  had  fallen  ; the 
branches  bare 

Made  a perpetual  moaning  in  the  air, 

And  screaming  from  their  eyries  over- 
head 

The  ravens  sailed  athwart  the  sky  of 
lead. 

With  his  own  hands  he  lopped  the 
boughs  and  bound 

Fagots,  that  crackled  with  foreboding 
sound, 

And  on  his  mules,  caparisoned  and 

gay 

With  bells  and  tassels,  sent  them  on 
their  way. 

Then  with  his  mind  on  one  dark  purpose 
bent, 

Again  to  the  Inquisitor  he  went, 

And  said  : “ Behold,  the  fagots  I have 
brought, 

And  now,  lest  my  atonement  be  as 
naught, 

Grant  me  one  more  request,  one  last  de- 
sire, — 

With  my  own  hand  to  light  the  funeral 
fire  ! ” 

And  Torquemada  answered  from  his 
seat, 

“ Son  of  the  Church  ! Thine  offering  is 
complete  ; 

Her  servants  through  all  ages  shall  not 

cease 

To  magnify  thy  deed.  Depart  in 
peace  ! ” 

Upon  the  market-place,  builded  of  stone 

The  scaff  old  rose,  whereon  Death  claimed 
his  own. 

At  the  four  corners,  in  stern  attitude, 

Four  statues  of  the  Hebrew  Prophets 
stood, 


INTERLUDE.  267 


Gazing  with  calm  indifference  in  their 

eyes 

Upon  this  place  of  human  sacrifice, 

Round  which  was  gathering  fast  the  ea- 
ger crowd, 

With  clamor  of  voices  dissonant  and 
loud, 

And  every  roof  and  window  was  alive 

With  restless  gazers,  swarming  like  a 
hive. 

The  church-hells  tolled,  the  chant  of 
monks  drew  near, 

Loud  trumpets  stammered  forth  their 
notes  of  fear, 

A line  of  torches  smoked  along  the 
street, 

There  was  a stir,  a rush,  a tramp  of  feet, 

And,  with  its  banners  floating  in  the  air, 

Slowly  the  long  procession  crossed  the 
square, 

And,  to  the  statues  of  the  Prophets 
bound, 

The  victims  stood,  with  fagots  piled 
around. 

Then  all  the  air  a blast  of  trumpets 
shook, 

And  louder  sang  the  monks  with  bell 
and  book, 

And  the  Hidalgo,  lofty,  stern,  and 
proud, 

Lifted  his  torch,  and,  bursting  through 
the  crowd, 

Lighted  in  haste  the  fagots,  and  then 
fled, 

Lest  those  imploring  eyes  should  strike 
him  dead  ! 

0 pitiless  skies  ! why  did  your  clouds 
retain 

For  peasants’  fields  their  floods  of  hoard- 
ed rain  ? 

0 pitiless  earth  ! why  open  no  abyss 

To  bury  in  its  chasm  a crime  like  this  ? 

That  night,  a mingled  column  of  fire 
and  smoke 

From  the  dark  thickets  of  the  forest 
broke, 

And,  glaring  o’er  the  landscape  leagues 
away, 

Made  all  the  fields  and  hamlets  bright 
as  day. 

Wrapped  in  a sheet  of  flame  the  castle 
blazed, 

And  as  the  villagers  in  terror  gazed, 

They  saw  the  figure  of  that  cruel  knight 


Lean  from  a window  in  the  turret’s 
height, 

His  ghastly  face  illumined  with  the 
glare, 

His  hands  upraised  above  his  head  in 
prayer, 

Till  the  floor  sank  beneath  him,  and  he 
fell 

Down  the  black  hollow  of  that  burning 
well. 

Three  centuries  and  more  above  his 
bones 

Have  piled  the  oblivious  years  like  fu- 
neral stones  ; 

His  name  has  perished  with  him,  and 
no  trace 

Remains  on  earth  of  his  afflicted  race  ; 

But  Torquemada’s  name,  with  clouds 
o’ercast, 

Looms  in  the  distant  landscape  of  the 
Past, 

Like  a burnt  tower  upon  a blackened 
heath, 

Lit  by  the  fires  of  burning  woods  be- 
neath ! 


INTERLUDE. 

Thus  closed  the  tale  of  guilt  and 
gloom, 

That  cast  upon  each  listener’s  face 
Its  shadow,  and  for  some  brief  space 
Unbroken  silence  filled  the  room. 

The  Jew  was  thoughtful  and  distressed  ; 
Upon  his  memory  thronged  and  pressed 
The  persecution  of  his  race, 

Their  wrongs  and  sufferings  and  dis- 
grace ; 

His  head  was  sunk  upon  his  breast, 

And  from  his  eyes  alternate  came 
Flashes  of  wrath  and  tears  of  shame. 

The  student  first  the  silence  broke, 

As  one  who  long  has  lain  in  wait, 

With  purpose  to  retaliate, 

And  thus  he  dealt  the  avenging  stroke. 
“In  such  a company  as  this, 

A tale  so  tragic  seems  amiss, 

That  by  its  terrible  control 
O’ermasters  and  drags  down  the  soul 
Into  a fathomless  abyss. 

The  Italian  Tales  that  you  disdain, 

Some  merry  Night  of  Straparole, 

Or  Machiavelli’s  Belphagor, 

Would  cheer  us  and  delight  us  more, 


268 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


Give  greater  pleasure  and  less  pain 
Than  your  grim  tragedies  of  Spain  ! ” 

And  here  the  Poet  raised  his  hand, 
With  such  entreaty  and  command, 

It  stopped  discussion  at  its  birth, 
And  said  : “ The  story  I shall  tell 
Has  meaning  in  it,  if  not  mirth  ; 
Listen,  and  hear  what  once  befell 
The  merry  birds  of  Killingworth  ! ” 


THE  POET’S  TALE. 

THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWORTH. 

It  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the 
land 

The  merle  and  mavis  build,  and  build- 
ing sing 

Those  lovely  lyrics,  written  by  His  hand, 

Whom  Saxon  Caedmon  calls  the  Blithe- 
heart  King  ; 

When  on  the  boughs  the  purple  buds  ex- 
pand, 

The  banners  of  the  vanguard  of  the 
Spring, 

And  rivulets,  rejoicing,  rush  and  leap, 

And  wave  their  fluttering  signals  from 
the  steep. 

The  robin  and  the  bluebird,  piping  loud, 

Filled  all  the  blossoming  orchards 
with  their  glee  ; 

The  sparrows  chirped  as  if  they  still  were 
proud 

Their  race  in  Holy  Writ  should  men- 
tioned be  ; 

And  hungry  crows  assembled  in  a crowd, 

Clamored  their  piteous  prayer  inces- 
santly, 

Knowing  who  hears  the  ravens  cry,  and 
said  : 

“Give  us,  0 Lord,  this  day  our  daily 
bread  ! ” 

Across  the  Sound  the  birds  of  passage 
sailed, 

Speaking  some  unknown  language 
strange  and  sweet 

Of  tropic  isle  remote,  and  passing  hailed 

The  village  with  the  cheers  of  all  their 
fleet  ; 

Or  quarrelling  together,  laughed  and 
railed 

Like  foreign  sailors,  landed  in  the 
street 


Of  seaport  town,  and  with  outlandish 
noise 

Of  oaths  and  gibberish  frightening  girls 
and  boys. 

Thus  came  the  jocund  Spring  in  Killing- 
worth, 

In  fabulous  days,  some  hundred  years 
ago  ; 

And  thrifty  farmers,  as  they  tilled  the 
earth, 

Heard  with  alarm  the  cawing  of  the 
crow, 

That  mingled  with  the  universal  mirth, 

Cassandra-like,  prognosticating  woe  ; 

They  shook  their  heads,  and  doomed 
with  dreadful  words 

To  swift  destruction  the  whole  race  of 
birds. 

And  a town-meeting  was  convened 
stiaiglitway 

To  set  a price  upon  the  guilty  heads 

Of  these  marauders,  who,  in  lieu  of  pay, 

Levied  black- mail  upon  the  garden 
beds 

And  cornfields,  and  beheld  without  dis- 
may 

The  awful  scarecrow,  with  his  flutter- 
ing shreds  ; 

The  skeleton  that  waited  at  their  feast, 

Whereby  their  sinful  pleasure  was  in- 
creased. 

Then  from  his  house,  a temple  painted 
white, 

With  fluted  columns,  and  a roof  of  red, 

The  Squire  came  forth,  august  and  splen- 
did sight  ! 

Slowly  descending,  with  majestic  tread, 

Three  flights  of  steps,  nor  looking  left 
nor  right, 

Down  the  long  street  he  walked,  as 
one  who  said, 

“A  town  that  boasts  inhabitants  like  me 

Can  have  no  lack  of  good  society  ! ” 

The  Parson,  too,  appeared,  a man  aus- 
tere, 

The  instinct  of  whose  nature  was  to 
kill  ; 

The  wrath  of  God  he  preached  from  year 
to  year, 

And  read,  with  fervor,  Edwards  on  the 
Will  ; 

His  favorite  pastime  was  to  slay  the  deer 

In  Summer  on  some  Adirondac  hill ; 


THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWORTIl. 


269 


E’en  now,  while  walking  down  the  rural 
lane, 

He  lopped  the  wayside  lilies  with  his 
cane. 

From  the  Academy,  whose  belfry  crowned 

The  hill  of  Science  with  its  vane  of 
brass, 

Came  the  Preceptor,  gazing  idly  round, 

Now  at  the  clouds,  and  now  at  the 
green  grass, 

And  all  absorbed  in  reveries  profound 

Of  fair  Almira  in  the  upper  class, 

"Who  was,  as  in  a sonnet  he  had  said, 

As  pure  as  water,  and  as  good  as  bread. 

And  next  the  Deacon  issued  from  his 
door, 

In  his  voluminous  neck-cloth,  white 
as  snow  ; 

A suit  of  sable  bombazine  he  wore  ; 

His  form  was  ponderous,  and  his  step 
was  slow  ; 

There  never  was  so  wise  a man  before  ; 

He  seemed  the  incarnate  44  Well,  I 
told  you  so  ! ” 

And  to  perpetuate  his  great  renown 

There  was  a street  named  after  him  in 
town. 

These  came  together  in  the  new  town- 
hall, 

With  sundry  farmers  from  the  region 
round. 

The  Squire  presided,  dignified  and  tall, 

His  air  impressive  and  his  reasoning 
sound  ; 

111  fared  it  with  the  birds,  both  great 
and  small  ; 

Hardly  a friend  in  all  that  crowd  they 
found, 

But  enemies  enough,  who  every  one 

Charged  them  with  all  the  crimes  be- 
neath the  sun. 

When  they  had  ended,  from  his  place 
apart, 

Rose  the  Preceptor,  to  redress  the 
wrong, 

And,  trembling  like  a steed  before  the 
start, 

Looked  round  bewildered  on  the  ex- 
pectant throng  ; 

Yhen  thought  of  fair  Almira,  and  took 
heart 

To  speak  out  what  was  in  him,  clear 
and  strong, 


Alike  regardless  of  their  smile  or  frown, 

And  quite  determined  not  to  be  laughed 
down. 

“ Plato,  anticipating  the  Reviewers, 

From  his  Republic  banished  without 
pity 

The  Poets  ; in  this  little  town  of  yours, 
You  put  to  death,  by  means  of  a Com- 
mittee, 

The  ballad-singers  and  the  Troubadours, 
The  street-musicians  of  the  heavenly 
city, 

The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music  for  us 
all 

In  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul. 

44  The  thrush  that  carols  at  the  dawn  of 
day 

From  the  green  steeples  of  the  piny 
wood  ; 

The  oriole  in  the  elm  ; the  noisy  jay, 
Jargoning  like  a foreigner  at  his  food  ; 

The  bluebird  balanced  on  some  topmost 
spray, 

Flooding  with  melody  the  neighbor- 
hood ; 

Linnet  and  meadow-lark,  and  all  the 
throng 

That  dwell  in  nests,  and  have  the  gift  of 
song. 

4 4 You  slay  them  all  ! and  wherefore  ? 
for  the  gain 

Of  a scant  handful  more  or  less  of 
wheat, 

Or  rye,  or  barley,  or  some  other  grain, 
Scratched  up  at  random  by  industri- 
ous feet, 

Searching  for  worm  or  weevil  after  rain  ! 
Or  a few  cherries,  that  are  not  so  sweet 

As  are  the  songs  these  uninvited  guests 

Sing  at  their  feast  with  comfortable 
breasts. 

4 4 Do  you  ne’er  think  what  wondrous 
beings  these  ? 

Do  you  ne’er  think  who  made  them, 
and  who  taught 

The  dialect  they  speak,  where  melodies 
Alone  are  the  interpreters  of  thought? 

Whose  household  words  are  songs  in 
many  keys, 

Sweeter  than  instrument  of  man  e’er 
caught ! 

Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops  even 

Are  half-way  houses  on  the  road  to  heaven ! 


270  TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


“ Think,  every  morning  when  the  sun 
peeps  through 

The  dim,  leaf-latticed  windows  of  the 
grove, 

How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 

Their  old,  melodious  madrigals  of  love ! 

And  when  you  think  of  this,  remember 
too 

’T  is  always  morning  somewhere,  and 
above 

The  awakening  continents,  from  shore 
to  shore, 

Somewhere  the  birds  are  singing  ever- 
more. 

“Think  of  your  woods  and  orchards 
without  birds  ! 

Of  empty  nests  that  cling  to  boughs 
and  beams 

As  in  an  idiot’s  brain  remembered  words 

Hang  empty  ’mid  the  cobwebs  of  his 
dreams  ! 

Will  bleat  of  flocks  or  bellowing  of  herds 

Make  up  for  the  lost  music,  when  your 
teams 

Drag  home  the  stingy  harvest,  and  no 
more 

The  feathered  gleaners  follow  to  your 
door  ? 

“ What ! would  you  rather  see  the  inces- 
sant stir 

Of  insects  in  the  windrows  of  the  hay, 

And  hear  the  locust  and  the  grasshopper 

Their  melancholy  hurdy-gurdies  play  ? 

Is  this  more  pleasant  to  you  than  the 
whir 

Of  meadow-lark,  and  her  sweet  rounde- 
lay, 

Or  twitter  of  little  field-fares,  as  you 
take 

Your  nooning  in  the  shade  of  bush  and 
brake  ? 

“You  call  them  thieves  and  pillagers  ; 
but  know, 

They  are  the  winged  wardens  of  your 
farms, 

Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the  insid- 
ious foe, 

And  from  your  harvests  keep  a hun- 
dred harms  ; 

Even  the  blackest  of  them  all,  the  crow, 

Renders  good  service  as  your  man-at- 
arms, 

Crushing  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail, 

And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and  snail. 


“ How  can  I teach  your  children  gentle- 
ness, 

And  mercy  to  the  weak,  and  reverence 

For  Life,  which,  in  its  weakness  or 
excess, 

Is  still  a gleam  of  God’s  omnipotence, 

Or  Death,  which,  seeming  darkness,  is 
no  less 

The  selfsame  light,  although  averted 
hence, 

When  by  your  laws,  your  actions,  and 
your  speech, 

You  contradict  the  very  things  I teach  ? ” 

With  this  he  closed  ; and  through  the 
audience  went 

A murmur,  like  the  rustle  of  dead 
leaves  ; 

The  farmers  laughed  and  nodded,  and 
some  bent 

Their  yellow  heads  together  like  their 
sheaves  : 

Men  have  no  faith  in  fine-spun  senti- 
ment 

Who  put  their  trust  in  bullocks  and 
in  beeves. 

The  birds  were  doomed  ; and,  as  the  rec- 
ord shows, 

A bounty  offered  for  the  heads  of  crows. 

There  was  another  audience  out  of  reach, 

Who  had  no  voice  nor  vote  in  making 
laws, 

But  in  the  papers  read  his  little  speech, 

And  crowned  his  modest  temples  with 
applause  ; 

They  made  him  conscious,  each  one  more 
than  each, 

He  still  was  victor,  vanquished  in 
their  cause. 

Sweetest  of  all  the  applause  he  won  from 
thee, 

0 fair  Almira  at  the  Academy  ! 

And  so  the  dreadful  massacre  began  ; 

O’er  fields  and  orchards,  and  o’er 
woodland  crests, 

The  ceaseless  fusillade  of  terror  ran. 

Dead  fell  the  birds,  with  blood-stains 
on  their  breasts, 

Or  wounded  crept  away  from  sight  of 
man, 

While  the  young  died  of  famine  in 
their  nests  ; 

A slaughter  to  be  told  in  groans,  not 
words, 

The  very  St.  Bartholomew  of  Birds  ! 


FINALE. 


271 


The  Summer  came,  and  all  the  birds 
were  dead  ; 

The  days  were  like  hot  coals ; the 
very  ground 

Was  burned  to  ashes  ; in  the  orchards 
fed 

Myriads  of  caterpillars,  and  around 

The  cultivated  fields  and  garden  beds 

Hosts  of  devouring  insects  crawled, 
and  found 

No  foe  to  check  their  march,  till  the}7- 
had  made 

The  land  a desert  without  leaf  or  shade. 


Devoured  by  worms,  like  Herod,  was  the 
town, 

Because,  like  Herod,  it  had  ruthlessly 

Slaughtered  the  Innocents.  From  the 
trees  spun  down 

The  canker-worms  upon  the  passers- 
by, 

Upon  each  woman’s  bonnet,  shawl,  and 
gown, 

Who  shook  them  off  with  just  a little 
cry  ; 

They  were  the  terror  of  each  favorite 
walk, 

The  endless  theme  of  all  the  village  talk. 


The  farmers  grew  impatient,  but  a few 

Confessed  their  error,  and  would  not 
complain, 

For  after  all,  the  best  thing  one  can  do 

When  it  is  raining,  is  to  let  it  rain. 

Then  they  repealed  the  law,  although 
they  knew 

It  would  not  call  the  dead  to  life  again  ; 

As  school-boys,  finding  their  mistake  too 
late, 

Draw  a wet  sponge  across  the  accusing 
slate. 

That  year  in  Killing-worth  the  Autumn 
came 

Without  the  light  of  his  majestic 
look, 

The  wonder  of  the  falling  tongues  of 
flame, 

The  illumined  pages  of  his  Doom’s- 
Day  book. 

A few  lost  leaves  blushed  crimson  with 
their  shame, 

And  drowned  themselves  despairing 
in  the  brook, 

While  the  wild  wind  went  moaning 
everywhere, 

Laraeiiting  the  dead  children  of  the  air ! 


But  the  next  Spring  a stranger  sight  was 
seen, 

A sight  that  never  yet  by  bard  was 
sung, 

As  great  a wonder  as  it  would  have  been 
If  some  dumb  animal  had  found  a 
tongue  ! 

A wagon,  overarched  with  evergreen, 
Upon  whose  boughs  were  wicker  cages 
hung, 

All  full  of  singing  birds,  came  down  the 
street, 

Filling  the  air  with  music  wild  and 
sweet. 

From  all  the  country  round  these  birds 
were  brought, 

By  order  of  the  town,  with  anxious 
quest, 

And,  loosened  from  their  wicker  prisons, 
sought 

In  woods  and  fields  the  places  they 
loved  best, 

Singing  loud  canticles,  which  many 
thought 

Were  satires  to  the  authorities  ad- 
dressed, 

While  others,  listening  in  green  lanes, 
averred 

Such  lovely  music  never  had  been  heard  ! 

But  blither  still  and  louder  carolled  they 
Upon  the  morrow,  for  they  seemed  to 
know 

It  was  the  fair  Almira’s  wedding-day, 
And  everywhere,  around,  above,  be- 
low, 

When  the  Preceptor  bore  his  bride  away, 
Their  songs  burst  forth  in  joyous  over- 
flow, 

And  a new  heaven  bent  over  a new  earth 

Amid  the  sunny  farms  of  Killingworth. 


FINALE. 

The  hour  was  late  ; the  fire  burned 
low, 

The  Landlord’s  eyes  were  closed  in  sleep, 
And  near  the  story’s  end  a deep 
Sonorous  sound  at  times  was  heard, 

As  when  the  distant  bagpipes  blow. 

At  this  all  laughed ; the  Landlord 
stirred, 

As  one  awaking  from  a swound, 

And,  gazing  anxiously  around, 

Protested  that  he  had  not  slept, 


272 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


But  only  shut  his  eyes,  and  kept 
His  ears  attentive  to  each  word. 

Then  all  arose,  and  said  “ Good  Night.” 
Alone  remained  the  drowsy  Squire 
To  rake  the  embers  of  the  fire, 

And  quench  the  waning  parlor  light ; 


While  from  the  windows,  here  and  there, 
The  scattered  lamps  a moment  gleamed, 
And  the  illumined  hostel  seemed 
The  constellation  of  the  Bear, 
Downward,  athwart  the  misty  air, 
Sinking  and  setting  toward  the  sun. 

Far  off  the  village  clock  struck  one. 


PART  SECOND. 


PRELUDE. 

A cold,  uninterrupted  rain, 

That  washed  each  southern  window- 
pane, 

And  made  a river  of  the  road  ; 

A sea  of  mist  that  overflowed 
The  house,  the  barns,  the  gilded  vane, 
And  drowned  the  upland  and  the  plain, 
Through  which  the  oak-trees,  broad  and 
high, 

Like  phantom  ships  went  drifting  by  ; 
And,  hidden  behind  a watery  screen, 
The  sun  unseen,  or  only  seen 
As  a faint  pallor  in  the  sky  ; — 

Thus  cold  and  colorless  and  gray, 

The  morn  of  that  autumnal  day, 

As  if  reluctant  to  begin, 

Dawned  on  the  silent  Sudbury  Inn, 

And  all  the  guests  that  in  it  lay. 

Full  late  they  slept.  They  did  not 
hear 

The  challenge  of  Sir  Chanticleer, 

Who  on  the  empty  threshing-floor, 
Disdainful  of  the  rain  outside, 

Was  strutting  with  a martial  stride, 

As  if  upon  his  thigh  he  wore 

The  famous  broadsword  of  the  Squire, 

And  said,  “ Behold  me,  and  admire  ! ” 

Only  the  Poet  seemed  to  hear, 

In  drowse  or  dream,  more  near  and  near 
Across  the  border-land  of  sleep 
The  blowing  of  a blithesome  horn, 

That  laughed  the  dismal  day  to  scorn  ; 

A splash  of  hoofs  and  rush  of  wheels 
Through  sand  and  mire  like  stranding 
keels, 

As  from  the  road  with  sudden  sweep 
The  Mail  drove  up  the  little  steep, 

And  stopped  beside  the  tavern  door  ; 

A moment  stopped,  and  then  again 


W ith  crack  of  whip  and  bark  of  dog 
Plunged  forward  through  the  sea  of  fog, 
And  all  was  silent  as  before,  — 

All  silent  save  the  dripping  rain. 

Then  one  by  one  the  guests  came  down, 
And  greeted  with  a smile  the  Squire, 
Who  sat  before  the  parlor  fire, 

Reading  the  paper  fresh  from  town. 

First  the  Sicilian,  like  a bird, 

Before  his  form  appeared,  was  heard 
Whistling  and  singing  down  the  stair  ; 
Then  came  the  Student,  with  a look 
As  placid  as  a meadow-brook  ; 

The  Theologian,  still  perplexed 
With  thoughts  of  this  world  and  the 
next  ; 

The  Poet  then,  as  one  who  seems 
Walking  in  visions  and  in  dreams  ; 
Then  the  Musician,  like  a fair 
Hyperion  from  whose  golden  hair 
The  radiance  of  the  morning  streams  ; 
And  last  the  aromatic  Jew 
Of  Alicant,  who,  as  he  threw 
The  door  wide  open,  on  the  air 
Breathed  round  about  him  a perfume 
Of  damask  roses  in  full  bloom, 

Making  a garden  of  the  room. 

The  breakfast  ended,  each  pursued 
The  promptings  of  his  various  mocd  '> 
Beside  the  fire  in  silence  smoked 
The  taciturn,  impassive  Jew, 

Lost  in  a pleasant  revery  ; 

While,  by  his  gravity  provoked, 

His  portrait  the  Sicilian  drew, 

And  wrote  beneath  it  ‘ ‘ Edrehi, 

At  the  Red  Horse  in  Sudbury.” 

By  far  the  busiest  of  them  all, 

The  Theologian  in  the  hall 
Was  feeding  robins  in  a cage,  — 

Two  corpulent  and  lazy  birds, 


THE  BELL  OF  ATRI. 


273 


Vagrants  and  pilferers  at  best, 

If  one  might  trust  the  hostler’s  words, 
Chief  instrument  of  their  arrest ; 

Two  poets  of  the  Golden  Age, 

Heirs  of  a boundless  heritage 
; . Of  fields  and  orchards,  east  and  west, 

And  sunshine  of  long  summer  days, 
Though  outlawed  now  and  dispos- 
sessed ! — 

Such  was  the  Theologian’s  phrase. 

Meanwhile  the  Student  held  discourse 
With  the  Musician,  on  the  source 
Of  all  the  legendary  lore 
Among  the  nations,  scattered  wide 
Like  silt  and  seaweed  by  the  force 
And  fluctuation  of  the  tide  ; 

The  tale  repeated  o’er  and  o’er. 

With  change  of  place  and  change  of 
name, 

Disguised,  transformed,  and  yet  the  same 
We  ’ve  heard  a hundred  times  before. 

The  Poet  at  the  window  mused, 

And  saw,  as  in  a dream  confused, 

The  countenance  of  the  Sun,  discrowned, 
And  haggard  with  a pale  despair, 

And  saw  the  cloud-rack  trail  and  drift 
Before  it,  and  the  trees  uplift 
Their  leafless  branches,  and  the  air 
Filled  with  the  arrows  of  the  rain, 

And  heard  amid  the  mist  below, 

Like  voices  of  distress  and  pain, 

That  haunt  the  thoughts  of  men  insane, 
The  fateful  cawings  of  the  crow. 

Then  down  the  road,  with  mud  besprent, 
And  drenched  with  rain  from  head  to 
hoof, 

The  rain-drops  dripping  from  his  mane 
And  tail  as  from  a pent- house  roof, 

A jaded  horse,  his  head  down  bent, 
Passed  slowly,  limping  as  he  went. 

The  young  Sicilian  — who  had  grown 
Impatient  longer  to  abide 
A prisoner,  greatly  mortified 
i To  see  completely  overthrown 
His  plans  for  angling  in  the  brook, 

And,  leaning  o’er  the  bridge  of  stone, 

To  watch  the  speckled  trout  glide  by, 
And  float  through  the  inverted  sky, 

Still  round  and  round  the  baited  hook  — 
Now  paced  the  room  with  rapid  stride, 
And,  pausing  at  the  Poet’s  side. 

Looked  forth,  and  saw  the  wretched 
steed. 


And  said  : “ Alas  for  human  greed. 
That  with  cold  hand  and  stony  eye 
Thus  turns  an  old  friend  out  to  die, 
Or  beg  his  food  from  gate  to  gate  ! 
This  brings  a tale  into  my  mind, 
Which,  if  you  are  not  disinclined 
To  listen,  I will  now  relate.” 

All  gave  assent ; all  wished  to  hear, 
Not  without  many  a jest  and  jeer, 
The  story  of  a spavined  steed  ; 

And  even  the  Student  with  the  rest 
Put  in  his  pleasant  little  jest 
Out  of  Malherbe,  that  Pegasus 
Is  but  a horse  that  with  all  speed 
Bears  poets  to  the  hospital  ; 

While  the  Sicilian,  self-possessed. 
After  a moment’s  interval 
Began  his  simple  story  thus. 


THE  SICILIAN’S  TALE. 

THE  BELL  OF  ATRI. 

At  Atri  in  Abruzzo,  a small  town 
Of  ancient  Roman  date,  but  scant 
renown, 

One  of  those  little  places  that  have  run 
Half  up  the  hill,  beneath  a blazing  sun. 
And  then  sat  down  to  rest,  as  if  to  say, 

‘ ‘ I climb  no  farther  upward,  come  what 
may,”  — 

The  Re  Giovanni,  now  unknown  to  fame. 
So  many  monarchs  since  have  borne  the 
name. 

Had  a great  bell  hung  in  the  market- 
place 

Beneath  a roof,  projecting  some  small 
space, 

By  way  of  shelter  from  the  sun  and  rain. 
Then  rode  he  through  the  streets  with 
all  his  train, 

And,  with  the  blast  of  trumpets  loud 
and  long, 

Made  proclamation,  that  whenever 
wrong 

Was  done  to  any  man,  he  should  but  ring 
The  great  bell  in  the  square,  and  he,  the 
King, 

Would  cause  the  Syndic  to  decide  thereon. 
Such  was  the  proclamation  of  King  John. 

How  swift  the  happy  days  in  Atri  sped, 
What  wrongs  were  righted,  need  not 
here  be  said. 

Suffice  it  that,  as  all  things  must  decay, 


18 


274  TALES  OF  A 

The  hempen  rope  at  length  was  worn 

away, 

Unravelled  at  the  end,  and,  strand  by 
strand, 

Loosened  and  wasted  in  the  ringer’s  hand, 
Till  one,  who  noted  this  in  passing  by, 
Mended  the  rope  with  braids  of  briony, 
So  that  the  leaves  and  tendrils  of  the 
vine 

Hung  like  a votive  garland  at  a shrine. 

By  chance  it  happened  that  in  Atri  dwelt 
A knight,  with  spur  on  heel  and  sword 
in  belt, 

Who  loved  to  hunt  the  wild-boar  in  the 
woods, 

Who  loved  his  falcons  with  their  crim- 
son hoods, 

Who  loved  his  hounds  and  horses,  and 
all  sports 

And  prodigalities  of  camps  and  courts  ; — 
Loved,  or  had  loved  them  ; for  at  last, 
grown  old, 

His  only  passion  was  the  love  of  gold. 

He  sold  his  horses,  sold  his  hawks  and 
hounds, 

Rented  his  vineyards  and  his  garden- 
grounds, 

Kept  but  one  steed,  his  favorite  steed  of 
all, 

To  starve  and  shiver  in  a naked  stall, 
And  day  by  day  sat  brooding  in  his  chair, 
Devising  plans  how  best  to  hoard  and 
spare. 

At  length  he  said  : 4 ‘ What  is  the  use 
or  need 

To  keep  at  my  own  cost  this  lazy  steed, 
Eating  his  head  off  in  my  stables  here, 
When  rents  are  low  and  provender  is 
dear  ? 

Let  him  go  feed  upon  the  public  ways  ; 

I want  him  only  for  the  holidays.” 

So  the  old  steed  was  turned  into  the 
heat 

Of  the  long,  lonely,  silent,  shadeless 
street  ; 

And  wandered  in  suburban  lanes  forlorn, 
Barked  at  by  dogs,  and  torn  by  brier 
and  thorn. 

One  afternoon,  as  in  that  sultr}?-  clime 
It  is  the  custom  in  the  summer  time, 
With  bolted  doors  and  window-shutters 
closed, 

The  inhabitants  of  Atri  slept  or  dozed  ; 


WAYSIDE  INN. 

When  suddenly  upon  their  senses  fell 
The  loud  alarum  of  the  accusing  bell  ! 
The  Syndic  started  from  his  deep  repose, 
Turned  on  his  couch,  and  listened,  and 
then  rose 

And  donned  his  robes,  and  with  reluc- 
tant pace 

Went  panting  forth  into  the  market- 
place, 

Where  the  great  bell  upon  its  cross-beam 
swung 

Reiterating  with  persistent  tongue, 

In  half-articulate  jargon,  the  old  song  : 
“Some  one  hath  done  a wrong,  hath 
done  a wrong  ! ” 

But  ere  he  reached  the  belfry’s  light  ar- 
cade 

He  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  beneath  its 
shade, 

No  shape  of  human  form  of  woman  born, 
But  a poor  steed  dejected  and  forlorn, 
Who  with  uplifted  head  and  eager  eye 
Was  tugging  at  the  vines  of  briony. 

“ Domeneddio  ! ” cried  the  Syndic 
straight, 

“This  is  the  Knight  of  Atri’s  steed  of 
state  ! 

He  calls  for  justice,  being  sore  distressed, 
And  pleads  his  cause  as  loudly  as  the 
best.” 

Meanwhile  from  street  and  lane  a noisy 
crowd 

Had  rolled  together  like  a summer  cloud, 
And  told  the  story  of  the  wTretched  beast 
In  five-and- twenty  different  ways  at 
least, 

With  much  gesticulation  and  appeal 
To  heathen  gods,  in  their  excessive  zeal. 
The  Knight  was  called  and  questioned  ; 
in  reply 

Did  not  confess  the  fact,  did  not  deny  ; 
Treated  the  matter  as  a pleasant  jest, 
And  set  at  naught  the  Syndic  and  the 
rest, 

Maintaining,  in  an  angry  undertone, 
That  he  should  do  what  pleased  him 
with  his  own. 

And  thereupon  the  Syndic  gravely  read 
The  proclamation  of  the  King  ; then 
said  : 

“ Pride  goeth  forth  on  horseback  grand 
and  gay, 

But  cometh  back  on  foot,  an  d begs  its  way  ; 
Fame  is  the  fragrance  of  heroic  deeds, 


KAMBALIT. 


275 


Of  flowers  of  chivalry  and  not  of  weeds  ! 

These  are  familiar  proverbs  ; but  I fear 

They  never  yet  have  reached  your 
knightly  ear. 

What  fair  renown,  what  honor,  what  re- 
pute 

Can  come  to  you  from  starving  this  poor 
brute  ? 

He  who  serves  well  and  speaks  not, 
merits  more 

Than  they  who  clamor  loudest  at  the 
door. 

Therefore  the  law  decrees  that  as  this 
steed 

Served  you  in  youth,  henceforth  you 
shall  take  heed 

To  comfort  his  old  age,  and  to  provide 

Shelter  in  stall,  and  food  and  field  be- 
side.” 

The  Knight  withdrew  abashed  ; the 
people  all 

Led  home  the  steed  in  triumph  to  his 
stall. 

The  King  heard  and  approved,  and 
laughed  in  glee, 

And  cried  aloud  : “ Right  well  it  pleas- 
eth  me  ! 

Church-bells  at  best  but  ring  us  to  the 
door ; 

But  go  not  in  to  mass  ; my  bell  doth 
more  : 

It  cometh  into  court  and  pleads  the  cause 

Of  creatures  dumb  and  unknown  to  the 
laws  ; 

And  this  shall  make,  in  every  Christian 
clime, 

The  Bell  of  Atri  famous  for  all  time.” 


INTERLUDE. 

“ Yes,  well  your  story  pleads  the  cause 
Of  those  dumb  mouths  that  have  no 
speech, 

Only  a cry  from  each  to  each 
In  its  own  kind,  with  its  own  laws  ; 
Something  that  is  beyond  the  reach 
Of  human  power  to  learn  or  teach,  — 

An  inarticulate  moan  of  pain, 

Like  the  immeasurable  main 
Breaking  upon  an  unknown  beach.” 

Thus  spake  the  Poet  with  a sigh  ; 

Then  added,  with  impassioned  cry, 

As  one  who  feels  the  words  he  speaks, 
The  color  flushing  in  his  cheeks, 


The  fervor  burning  in  his  eye  : 

“ Among  the  noblest  in  the  land, 
Though  he  may  count  himself  the  least, 
That  man  I honor  and  revere 
Who  without  favor,  without  fear, 

In  the  great  city  dares  to  stand 
The  friend  of  every  friendless  beast, 

And  tames  with  his  unflinching  hand 
The  brutes  that  wear  our  form  and  face, 
The  were- wolves  of  the  human  race  ! ” 
Then  paused,  and  waited  with  a frown, 
Like  some  old  champion  of  romance, 
Who,  having  thrown  his  gauntlet  down, 
Expectant  leans  upon  his  lance  ; 

But  neither  Knight  nor  Squire  is  found 
To  raise  the  gauntlet  from  the  ground, 
And  try  with  him  the  battle’s  chance. 

“ Wake  from  your  dreams,  0 Edrehi ! 
Or  dreaming  speak  to  us,  and  make 
A feint  of  being  half  awake, 

And  tell  us  what  your  dreams  may  be. 
Out  of  the  hazy  atmosphere 
Of  cloud-land  deign  to  reappear 
Among  us  in  this  Wayside  Inn  ; 

Tell  us  what  visions  and  what  scenes 

Illuminate  the  dark  ravines 

In  which  you  grope  your  way.  Begin  ! * 

Thus  the  Sicilian  spake.  The  Jew 
Made  no  reply,  but  only  smiled, 

As  men  unto  a wayward  child, 

Not  knowing  what  to  answer,  do. 

As  from  a cavern’s  mouth,  o’ergrown 
With  moss  and  intcrtangled  vines, 

A streamlet  leaps  into  the  light 
And  murmurs  over  root  and  stone 
In  a melodious  undertone  ; 

Or  as  amid  the  noonday  night 
Of  sombre  and  wind-liaunted  pines, 
There  runs  a sound  as  of  the  sea  ; 

So  from  his  bearded  lips  there  cam* 

A melody  vuthout  a name, 

A song,  a tale,  a history, 

Or  whatsoever  it  may  be, 

W rit  and  recorded  in  these  lines. 


THE  SPANISH  JEW’S  TALK 

KAMBALU. 

Into  the  city  of  Kambalu, 

By  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan, 
At  the  head  of  his  dusty  caravan, 
Laden  with  treasure  from  realms  afar, 
Baldacca  and  Kelat  and  Kandahar, 
Rode  the  great  captain  Alau. 


276 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


The  Khan  from  his  palace- window  gazed, 
And  saw  in  the  thronging  street  beneath, 
In  the  light  of  the  setting  sun,  that 
blazed 

Through  the  clouds  of  dust  by  the  cara- 
van raised, 

The  flash  of  harness  and  jewelled  sheath, 
And  the  shining  scyinitars  of  the  guard, 
And  the  weary  camels  that  bared  their 
teeth, 

As  they  passed  and  passed  through  the 
gates  unbarred 

Into  the  shade  of  the  palace-yard. 

Thus  into  the  city  of  Kambalu 
Rode  the  great  captain  Alau  ; 

And  he  stood  before  the  Khan,  and  said  : 
“The  enemies  of  my  lord  are  dead  ; 

All  the  Kalifs  of  all  the  West 
Bow  and  obey  thy  least  behest ; 

The  plains  are  dark  with  the  mulberry- 
trees, 

The  weavers  are  busy  in  Samarcand, 

The  miners  are  sifting  the  golden  sand, 
The  divers  plunging  for  pearls  in  the 
seas, 

And  peace  and  plenty  are  in  the  land. 

“ Baldacca’s  Kalif,  and  he  alone, 

Rose  in  revolt  against  thy  throne  : 

His  treasures  are  at  thy  palace-door, 
With  the  swords  and  the  shawls  and  the 
jewels  he  wore  ; 

His  body  is  dust  o’er  the  desert  blown. 

“ A mile  outside  of  Baldacca’s  gate 
I left  my  forces  to  lie  in  wait, 

Concealed  by  forests  and  hillocks  of  sand, 
And  forward  dashed  with  a handful  of 
men, 

To  lure  the  old  tiger  from  his  den 
Into  the  ambush  I had  planned. 

Ere  we  reached  the  town  the  alarm  was 
spread, 

For  we  heard  the  sound  of  gongs  from 
within  ; 

And  with  clash  of  cymbals  and  warlike 
din 

The  gates  swung  wide ; and  we  turned 
and  fled  ; 

And  the  garrison  sallied  forth  and  pur- 
sued, 

With  the  gray  old  Kalif  at  their  head, 
And  above  them  the  banner  of  Moham- 
med : 

So  we  snared  them  all,  and  the  town  was 
subdued. 


“ As  in  at  the  gate  we  rode,  behold, 

A tower  that  is  called  the  Tower  of  Gold  ! 
For  there  the  Kalif  had  hidden  his 
wealth, 

Heaped  and  hoarded  and  piled  on  high, 
Like  sacks  of  wheat  in  a granary  ; 

And  thither  the  miser  crept  by  stealth 
To  feel  of  the  gold  that  gave  him  health, 
And  to  gaze  and  gloat  with  his  hungry 
eye 

On  jewels  that  gleamed  like  a glow- 
worm’s spark, 

Or  the  eyes  of  a panther  in  the  dark. 

“ I said  to  the  Kalif : ‘ Thou  art  old, 
Thou  hast  no  need  of  so  much  gold. 

Thou  shouldst  not  have  heaped  and  hid- 
den it  here, 

Till  the  breath  of  battle  was  hot  and 
near, 

But  have  sown  through  the  land  these 
useless  hoards 

To  spring  into  shining  blades  of  swords, 
And  keep  thine  honor  sweet  and  clear. 
These  grains  of  gold  are  not  grains  of 
wheat ; 

These  bars  of  silver  thou  canst  not  eat ; 
These  jewels  and  pearls  and  precious 
stones 

Cannot  cure  the  aches  in  thy  bones, 

Nor  keep  the  feet  of  Death  one  hour 
From  climbing  the  stairways  of  thy 
tower  ! ’ 

‘ ‘ Then  into  his  dungeon  I locked  the 
drone, 

And  left  him  to  feed  there  all  alone 
In  the  honey-cells  of  his  golden  hive  : 
Never  a prayer,  nor  a cry,  nor  a groan 
Was  heard  from  those  massive  walls  of 
stone, 

Nor  again  was  the  Kalif  seen  alive  ! 

“ When  at  last  we  unlocked  the  door, 
We  found  him  dead  upon  the  floor  ; 

The  rings  had  dropped  from  his  withered 
hands, 

His  teeth  were  like  bones  in  the  desert 
sands  : 

Still  clutching  his  treasure  he  had  died  ; 
And  as  he  lay  there,  he  appeared 
A statue  of  gold  with  a silver  beard, 

His  arms  outstretched  as  if  crucified.” 

This  is  the  story,  strange  and  true, 

That  the  great  captain  Alau 

Told  to  his  brother  the  Tartar  Khan, 


THE  COBBLER  OF  HAGEN AU. 


277 


When  he  rode  that  day  into  Kambalu 
By  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan. 

INTERLUDE. 

I thought  before  your  tale  began,” 

The  Student  murmured,  “we  should 
have 

Some  legend  written  by  Judah  Rav 
In  his  Gemara  of  Babylon  ; 

Or  something  from  the  Gulistan,  — 

The  tale  of  the  Cazy  of  Hamadan, 

Or  of  that  King  of  Khorasan 
Who  saw  in  dreams  the  eyes  of  one 
That  had  a hundred  years  been  dead 
Still  moving  restless  in  his  head, 

Un dimmed,  and  gleaming  with  the  lust 
Of  power,  though  all  the  rest  was  dust. 

“ But  lo  ! your  glittering  caravan 
On  the  road  that  leadeth  to  Ispahan 
Hath  led  us  farther  to  the  East 
Into  the  regions  of  Cathay. 

Spite  of  your  Kalif  and  his  gold, 

Pleasant  has  been  the  tale  you  told, 

And  full  of  color  ; that  at  least 
No  one  will  question  or  gainsay. 

And  yet  on  such  a dismal  day 
We  need  a merrier  tale  to  clear 
The  dark  and  heavy  atmosphere. 

So  listen,  Lordlings,  while  I tell, 
Without  a preface,  what  befell 
A simple  cobbler,  in  the  year  — 

No  matter  ; it  was  long  ago  ; 

And  that  is  all  we  need  to  know.” 


TPIE  STUDENT’S  TALE. 

THE  COBBLER  OF  HAGENAU. 

I trust  that  somewhere  and  somehow 
You  all  have  heard  of  Hagenau, 

A quiet,  quaint,  and  ancient  town 
Among  the  green  Alsatian  hills, 

A place  of  valleys,  streams,  and  mills, 
Where  Barbarossa’s  castle,  brown 
With  rust  of  centuries,  still  looks  down 
On  the  broad,  drowsy  land  below,  — 

On  shadowy  forests  filled  with  game, 
And  the  blue  river  winding  slow 
Through  meadows,  where  the  hedges 
grow 

That  give  this  little  town  its  name. 

It  happened  in  the  good  old  times, 
While  yet  the  Master-singers  filled 


The  noisy  workshop  and  the  guild 
With  various  melodies  and  rhymes, 

That  here  in  Hagenau  there  dwelt 
A cobbler,  — one  who  loved  debate, 
And,  arguing  from  a postulate, 

Would  say  what  others  only  felt  ; 

A man  of  forecast  and  of  thrift, 

And  of  a shrewd  and  careful  mind 
In  this  world’s  business,  but  inclined 
Somewhat  to  let  the  next  world  drift. 

Hans  Sachs  with  vast  delight  he  read, 
And  Regen bogen’s  rhymes  of  love, 

For  their  poetic  fame  had  spread 
Even  to  the  town  of  Hagenau  ; 

And  some  Quick  Melody  of  the  Plough, 
Or  Double  Harmony  of  the  Dove, 

Was  always  running  in  his  head. 

He  kept,  moreover,  at  his  side, 

Among  his  leathers  and  his  tools, 
Reynard  the  Fox,  the  Ship  of  Fools, 

Or  Eulenspiegel,  open  wide  ; 

With  these  he  was  much  edified  : 

He  thought  them  wiser  than  the  Schools. 

His  good  wife,  full  of  godly  fear, 

Liked  not  these  worldly  themes  to  hear  ; 
The  Psalter  was  her  book  of  songs  ; 

The  only  music  to  her  ear 
Was  that  which  to  the  Church  belongs, 
When  the  loud  choir  on  Sunday  chanted, 
And  the  two  angels  carved  in  wood, 
That  by  the  windy  organ  stood, 

Blew  on  their  trumpets  loud  and  clear, 
And  all  the  echoes,  far  and  near, 
Gibbered  as  if  the  church  were  haunted. 
Outside  his  door,  one  afternoon, 

This  humble  votary  of  the  muse 
Sat  in  the  narrow  strip  of  shade 
By  a projecting  cornice  made, 

Mending  the  Burgomaster’s  shoes, 

And  singing  a familiar  tune  : — 

“ Our  ingress  into  the  world 
Was  naked  and  bare  ; 

Our  progress  through  the  world 
Is  trouble  and  care  ; 

Our  egress  from  the  world 

Will  be  nobody  knows  where  : 

But  if  we  do  well  here 
We  shall  do  well  there  ; 

And  I could  tell  you  no  more, 

Should  I preach  a whole  year  ! ” 

Thus  sang  the  cobbler  at  his  work  ; 

And  with  his  gestures  marked  the 
time 


278 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


Closing  together  with  a jerk 
Of  his  waxed  thread  the  stitch  and 
rhyme. 

Meanwhile  his  quiet  little  dame 
Was  leaning  o’er  the  window-sill, 

Eager,  excited,  but  mouse-still, 

Gazing  impatiently  to  see 

What  the  great  throng  of  folk  might  be 

That  onward  in  procession  came, 

Along  the  unfrequented  street, 

With  horns  that  blew,  and  drums  that 
beat, 

And  banners  flying,  and  the  flame 
Of  tapers,  and,  at  times,  the  sweet 
Voices  of  nuns  ; and  as  they  sang 
Suddenly  all  the  church- bells  rang. 

In  a gay  coach,  above  the  crowd, 

There  sat  a monk  in  ample  hood, 

Who  with  his  right  hand  held  aloft 
A red  and  ponderous  cross  of  wood, 

To  which  at  times  he  meekly  bowed. 

In  front  three  horsemen  rode,  and  oft, 
With  voice  and  air  importunate, 

A boisterous  herald  cried  aloud  : 

“ The  grace  of  God  is  at  your  gate  ! ” 

So  onward  to  the  church  they  passed. 

The  cobbler  slowly  turned  his  last, 

And,  wagging  his  sagacious  head, 

Unto  his  kneeling  housewife  said  : 

“ ’T  is  the  monk  Tetzel.  I have  heard 
The  cawings  of  that  reverend  bird. 

Don’t  let  him  cheat  you  of  your  gold  ; 
Indulgence  is  not  bought  and  sold.” 

The  church  of  Hagenau,  that  night, 

Was  full  of  people,  full  of  light  ; 

An  odor  of  incense  filled  the  air, 

The  priest  intoned,  the  organ  groaned 
Its  inarticulate  despair  ; 

The  candles  on  the  altar  blazed, 

And  full  in  front  of  it  upraised 
The  red  cross  stood  against  the  glare. 
Below,  upon  the  altar-rail 
Indulgences  were  set  to  sale, 

Like  ballads  at  a country  fair. 

A heavy  strong-box,  iron-bound 
And  carved  with  many  a quaint  device, 
Received,  with  a melodious  sound, 

The  coin  that  purchased  Paradise. 

Then  from  the  pulpit  overhead, 

Tetzel  the  monk,  with  fiery  glow, 
Thundered  upon  the  crowd  below. 

“ Good  people  all,  draw  near ! ” he 
said  ; 


“ Purchase  these  letters,  signed  and 
sealed, 

By  which  all  sins,  though  unrevealed 
And  unrepented,  are  forgiven  ! 

Count  but  the  gain,  count  not  the  loss  ! 
Your  gold  and  silver  are  but  dross, 

And  yet  they  pave  the  way  to  heaven. 

I hear  your  mothers  and  your  sires 
Cry  from  their  purgatorial  fires, 

And  will  ye  not  their  ransom  pay  ? 

0 senseless  people  ! when  the  gate 
Of  heaven  is  open,  will  ye  wait  ? 

Will  ye  not  enter  in  to-day  ? 

To-morrow  it  will  be  too  late  ; 

1 shall  be  gone  upon  my  way. 

Make  haste  ! bring  money  while  ye  may ! ” 

The  women  shuddered,  and  turned 
pale  ; 

Allured  by  hope  or  driven  by  fear, 

With  many  a sob  and  many  a tear, 

All  crowded  to  the  altar-rail. 

Pieces  of  silver  and  of  gold 
Into  the  tinkling  strong-box  fell 
Like  pebbles  dropped  into  a well ; 

And  soon  the  ballads  were  all  sold. 

The  cobbler’s  wife  among  the  rest 
Slipped  into  the  capacious  chest 
A golden  florin  ; then  withdrew, 

Hiding  the  paper  in  her  breast ; 

And  homeward  through  the  darkness 
went 

Comforted,  quieted,  content  ; 

She  did  not  walk,  she  rather  flew, 

A dove  that  settles  to  her  nest, 

When  some  appalling  bird  of  prey 
That  scared  her  has  been  driven  away. 

The  days  went  by,  the  monk  Tvas  gone, 
The  summer  passed,  the  winter  came  ; 
Though  seasons  changed,  yet  still  the 
same 

The  daily  round  of  life  went  on  ; 

The  daily  round  of  household  care, 

The  narrow  life  of  toil  and  prayer. 

But  in  her  heart  the  cobbler’s  dame 
Had  now  a treasure  beyond  price, 

A secret  joy  without  a name, 

The  certainty  of  Paradise. 

Alas,  alas  ! Dust  unto  dust ! 

Before  the  winter  wore  away, 

Her  body  in  the  churchyard  lay, 

Her  patient  soul  was  with  the  Just  ! 
After  her  death,  among  the  things 
That  even  the  poor  preserve  with 
care,  — 

Some  little  trinkets  and  cheap  rings, 


INTERLUDE. 


A locket  with  her  mother’s  hair, 

Her  wedding  gown,  the  faded  flowers 
She  wore  upon  her  wedding  day,  — 
Among  these  memories  of  past  hours, 
That  so  much  of  the  heart  reveal, 
Carefully  kept  and  put  away, 

The  Letter  of  Indulgence  lay 
Folded,  with  signature  and  seal. 

Meanwhile  the  Priest,  aggrieved  and 
pained, 

Waited  and  wondered  that  no  word 
Of  mass  or  requiem  he  heard, 

As  by  the  Holy  Church  ordained  : 

Then  to  the  Magistrate  complained, 

That  as  this  woman  had  been  dead 
A week  or  more,  and  no  mass  said, 

It  was  rank  heresy,  or  at  least 
Contempt  of  Church  ; thus  said  the 
Priest ; 

And  straight  the  cobbler  was  arraigned. 

He  came,  confiding  in  his  cause, 

But  rather  doubtful  of  the  laws. 

The  Justice  from  his  elbow-chair 
Gave  him  a look  that  seemed  to  say  : 
“Thou  standest  before  a Magistrate, 
Therefore  do  not  prevaricate  ! ” 

Then  asked  him  in  a business  way, 
Kindly  but  cold  : “ Is  thy  wife  dead?” 
The  cobbler  meekly  bowed  his  head  ; 
“She  is,”  came  struggling  from  his 
throat 

Scarce  audibly.  The  Justice  wrote 
The  words  down  in  a book,  and  then 
Continued,  as  he  raised  his  pen  : 

“ She  is ; and  hath  a mass  been  said 
For  the  salvation  of  her  soul  ? 

Come,  speak  the  truth  ! confess  the 
whole  ! ” 

The  cobbler  without  pause  replied  : 

“ Of  mass  or  prayer  there  was  no  need  ; 
For  at  the  moment  when  she  died 
Her  soul  was  with  the  glorified  ! ” 

And  from  his  pocket  with  all  speed 
He  drew  the  priestly  title-deed, 

And  prayed  the  Justice  he  would  read. 

The  Justice  read,  amused,  amazed  ; 

And  as  he  read  his  mirth  increased  ; 

At  times  his  shaggy  brows  he  raised, 
Now  wondering  at  the  cobbler  gazed, 
Now  archly  at  the  angry  Priest. 

“ From  all  excesses,  sins,  and  crimes 
Thou  hast  committed  in  past  times 
Thee  I absolve  ! And  furthermore, 
Purified  from  all  earthly  taints, 


27^ 

To  the  communion  of  the  Saints 
And  to  the  sacraments  restore  ! 

All  stains  of  weakness,  and  all  trace 
Of  shame  and  censure  I efface  ; 

Remit  the  pains  thou  shouldst  endure, 
And  make  thee  innocent  and  pure, 

So  that  in  dying,  unto  thee 
The  gates  of  heaven  shall  open  be  ! 
Though  long  thou  livest,  yet  this  grace 
Until  the  moment  of  thy  death 
Unchangeable  continueth  ! ” 

Then  said  he  to  the  Priest : “ I find 
This  document  is  duly  signed 
Brother  John  Tetzel,  his  own  hand. 

At  all  tribunals  in  the  land 
In  evidence  it  may  be  used  ; 

Therefore  acquitted  is  the  accused.” 
Then  to  the  cobbler  turned : “ My 

friend, 

Pray  tell  me,  didst  thou  ever  read 
Reynard  the  Fox?”  — “0  yes,  in- 
deed ! ” — 

“ I thought  so.  Don’t  forget  the  end.” 


INTERLUDE. 

“ What  was  the  end  ? I am  ashamed 
Not  to  remember  Reynard’s  fate  ; 

I have  not  read  the  book  of  late  ; 

Was  he  not  hanged  ? ” the  Poet  said. 
The  Student  gravely  shook  his  head. 
And  answered  : “ You  exaggerate. 

There  was  a tournament  proclaimed, 

And  Reynard  fought  with  Isegrim 
The  Wolf,  and  having  vanquished  him, 
Rose  to  high  honor  in  the  State, 

And  Keeper  of  the  Seals  was  named  ! ” 

At  this  the  gay  Sicilian  laughed  : 
“Fight  fire  with  fire,  and  craft  with 
craft ; 

Successful  cunning  seems  to  be 
The  moral  of  your  tale,”  said  he. 

“ Mine  had  a better,  and  the  Jew’s 
Had  none  at  all,  that  I could  see  ; 

His  aim  was  only  to  amuse.” 

Meanwhile  from  out  its  ebon  case 
His  violin  the  Minstrel  drew, 

And  having  tuned  its  strings  anew, 

Now  held  it  close  in  his  embrace, 

And  poising  in  his  outstretched  hand 
The  bow,  like  a magician’s  wand, 

He  paused,  and  said,  with  beaming  face: 
“ Last  night  my  story  was  too  long  ; 


283 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


To-day  I give  you  but  a song, 

An  old  tradition  of  the  N orth  ; 

But  first,  to  put  you  in  the  mood, 

I will  a little  while  prelude, 

And  from  this  instrument  draw  forth 
Something  by  way  of  overture.” 

He  played  ; at  first  the  tones  were  pure 
And  tender  as  a summer  night, 

The  full  moon  climbing  to  her  height, 
The  sob  and  ripple  of  the  seas, 

The  flapping  of  an  idle  sail ; 

And  then  by  sudden  and  sharp  degrees 
The  multiplied,  wild  harmonies 
Freshened  and  burst  into  a gale  ; 

A tempest  howling  through  the  dark, 

A crash  as  of  some  shipwrecked  bark, 

A loud  and  melancholy  wail. 

Such  was  the  prelude  to  the  tale 
Told  by  the  Minstrel  ; and  at  times 
He  paused  amid  its  varying  rhymes, 
And  at  each  pause  again  broke  in 
The  music  of  his  violin, 

With  tones  of  sweetness  or  of  fear, 
Movements  of  trouble  or  of  calm, 
Creating  their  own  atmosphere  ; 

As  sitting  in  a church  we  hear 
Between  the  verses  of  the  psalm 
The  organ  playing  soft  and  clear, 

Or  thundering  on  the  startled  ear. 


THE  MUSICIAN’S  TALE. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  CARMILHAN. 

I. 

At  Stralsund,  by  the  Baltic  Sea, 

Within  the  sandy  bar, 

At  sunset  of  a summer’s  day, 

Ready  for  sea,  at  anchor  lay 
The  good  ship  Yaldemar. 

The  sunbeams  danced  upon  the  waves, 
And  played  along  her  side  ; 

And  through  the  cabin  windows 
streamed 

In  ripples  of  golden  light,  that  seemed 
The  ripple  of  the  tide. 

There  sat  the  captain  with  his  friends, 
Old  skippers  brown  and  hale, 

Who  smoked  and  grumbled  o’er  their 

£i’og, 

And  talked  of  iceberg  and  of  fog, 

Of  calm  and  storm  and  gale. 


And  one  was  spinning  a sailor's  yarn 
About  Klaboterman, 

The  Kobold  of  the  sea  ; a spright 
Invisible  to  mortal  sight, 

Who  o’er  the  rigging  ran. 

Sometimes  he  hammered  in  the  hold, 
Sometimes  upon  the  mast, 

Sometimes  abeam,  sometimes  abaft, 

Or  at  the  bows  he  sang  and  laughed, 
And  made  all  tight  and  fast. 

He  helped  the  sailors  at  their  work, 

And  toiled  with  jovial  din  ; 

He  helped  them  hoist  and  reef  the  sails, 
He  helped  them  stow  the  casks  and 
bales, 

And  heave  the  anchor  in. 

But  woe  unto  the  lazy  louts, 

The  idlers  of  the  crew  ; 

Them  to  torment  was  his  delight, 

And  worry  them  by  day  and  night, 

And  pinch  them  black  and  blue. 

And  woe  to  him  whose  mortal  eyes 
Klaboterman  behold. 

It  is  a certain  sign  of  death  ! — 

The  cabin-boy  here  held  his  breath. 

He  felt  his  blood  run  cold. 


n. 

The  jolly  skipper  paused  awhile. 

And  then  again  began  ; 

“ There  is  a Spectre  Ship,”  quoth  he, 

“ A ship  of  the  Dead  that  sails  the  sea, 
And  is  called  the  Carmilhan. 

“ A ghostly  ship,  with  a ghostly  crew, 
In  tempests  she  appears  ; 

And  before  the  gale,  or  against  the  gale. 
She  sails  without  a rag  of  sail, 

Without  a helmsman  steers. 

“ She  haunts  the  Atlantic  north  and 
south, 

But  mostly  the  mid-sea, 

Where  three  great  rocks  rise  bleak  and 
bare 

Like  furnace-chimneys  in  the  air, 

And  are  called  the  Chimneys  Three. 

“ And  ill  betide  the  luckless  ship 
That  meets  the  Carmilhan  ; 


THE  BALLAD  OF  CAR3VIILHAN. 


281 


Over  her  decks  the  seas  will  leap, 

She  must  go  down  into  the  deep, 

And  perish  mouse  and  man.” 

The  captain  of  the  Valdemar 
Laughed  loud  with  merry  heart. 

“I  should  like  to  see  this  ship,”  said 
he  ; 

“ I should  like  to  find  these  Chimneys 
Three, 

That  are  marked  down  in  the  chart. 

“ I have  sailed  right  over  the  spot,”  he 
said, 

“ With  a good  stiff*  breeze  behind, 
When  the  sea  was  blue,  and  the  sky  was 
clear,  — 

You  can  follow  my  course  by  these  pin- 
holes here,  — 

Ajid  never  a rock  could  find.” 

And  then  he  swore  a dreadful  oath, 

He  swore  by  the  Kingdoms  Three, 
That,  should  he  meet  the  Carmilhan, 

He  would  run  her  down,  although  he  ran 
Eight  into  Eternity  ! 

All  this,  while  passing  to  and  fro, 

The  cabin-boy  had  heard  ; 

He  lingered  at  the  door  to  hear, 

And  drank  in  all  with  greedy  ear, 

And  pondered  every  word. 

He  was  a simple  country  lad, 

But  of  a roving  mind. 

“0,  it  must  be  like  heaven,”  thought 
he, 

“ Those  far-off  foreign  lands  to  see, 

And  fortune  seek  and  find  ! ” 

But  in  the  fo’castle,  when  he  heard 
The  mariners  blaspheme, 

He  thought  of  home,  he  thought  of  God, 
And  his  mother  under  the  churchyard 
sod, 

And  wished  it  were  a dream. 

One  friend  on  board  that  ship  had  he  ; 

’T  was  the  Klaboterman, 

Who  saw  the  Bible  in  his  chest, 

And  made  a sign  upon  his  breast, 

All  evil  things  to  ban. 


hi. 

The  cabin  windows  have  grown  blank 
As  eyeballs  of  the  dead  ; 


No  more  the  glancing  sunbeams  burn 
On  the  gilt  letters  of  the  stern, 

But  on  the  figure-head  ; 

On  Valdemar  Victorious, 

Who  looketli  with  disdain 
To  see  his  image  in  the  tide 
Dismembered  float  from  side  to  side, 

And  reunite  again. 

“ It  is  the  wind,”  those  skippers  said, 
“That  swings  the  vessel  so  ; 

It  is  the  wind  ; it  freshens  fast, 

’T  is  time  to  say  farewell  at  last, 

’T is  time  for  us  to  go.” 

They  shook  the  captain  by  the  hand, 

“ Good  luck  ! good  luck  ! ” they  cried  ; 
Each  face  was  like  the  setting  sun, 

As,  broad  and  red,  they  one  by  one 
Went  o’er  the  vessel’s  side. 

The  sun  went  down,  the  full  moon  rose, 
Serene  o’er  field  and  flood  ; 

And  all  the  winding  creeks  and  bays 
And  broad  sea-meadows  seemed  ablaze, 
The  sky  was  red  as  blood. 

The  southwest  wind  blew  fresh  and  fair, 
As  fair  as  wind  could  be  ; 

Bound  for  Odessa,  o’ey  the  bar, 

With  all  sail  set,  the  Valdemar 
Went  proudly  out  to  sea. 

The  lovely  moon  climbs  up  the  sky 
As  one  who  walks  in  dreams  ; 

A tower  of  marble  in  her  light, 

A wall  of  black,  a wall  of  white, 

The  stately  vessel  seems. 

Low  down  upon  the  sandy  coast 
The  lights  begin  to  burn  ; 

And  now,  uplifted  high  in  air, 

They  kindle  with  a fiercer  glare, 

And  now  drop  far  astern. 

The  dawn  appears,  the  land  is  gone, 

The  sea  is  all  around  ; 

Then  on  each  hand  low  hills  of  sand 
Emerge  and  form  another  land  ; 

She  steereth  through  the  Sound. 

Through  Kattegat  and  Skager-rack 
She  flitteth  like  a ghost  ; 

By  day  and  night,  by  night  and  day, 
She  bounds,  she  flies  upon  her  way 
Along  the  English  coast. 


282 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


Cape  Finisterre  is  drawing  near, 

Cape  Finisterre  is  past  ; 

Into  the  open  ocean  stream 
She  floats,  the  vision  of  a dream 
Too  beautiful  to  last. 

Suns  rise  and  set,  and  rise,  and  yet 
There  is  no  land  in  sight  ; 

The  liquid  planets  overhead 
Burn  brighter  now  the  moon  is  dead. 
And  longer  stays  the  night. 


IV. 

And  now  along  the  horizon’s  edge 
Mountains  of  cloud  uprose, 

Black  as  with  forests  underneath, 

Above  their  sharp  and  jagged  teeth 
Were  white  as  drifted  snows. 

Unseen  behind  them  sank  the  sun, 

But  flushed  each  snowy  peak 
A little  while  with  rosy  light 
That  faded  slowly  from  the  sight 
As  blushes  from  the  cheek. 

Black  grew  the  sky,  — all  black,  all 
black  ; 

The  clouds  were  everywhere  ; 

There  was  a feeling  of  suspense 
In  nature,  a mysterious  sense 
Of  terror  in  the  air. 

And  all  on  board  the  Yaldemar 
Was  still  as  still  could  be  ; 

Save  when  the  dismal  ship-bell  tolled, 
As  ever  and  anon  she  rolled, 

And  lurched  into  the  sea. 

The  captain  up  and  down  the  deck 
Went  striding  to  and  fro  ; 

Now  watched  the  compass  at  the  wheel, 
Now  lifted  up  his  hand  to  feel 
Which  way  the  wind  might  blow. 

And  now  he  looked  up  at  the  sails, 

And  now  upon  the  deep  ; 

In  every  fibre  of  his  frame 
He  felt  the  storm  before  it  came, 

He  had  no  thought  of  sleep. 

Eight  bells  ! and  suddenly  abaft, 

With  a great  rush  of  rain, 

Making  the  ocean  white  with  spume, 

In  darkness  like  the  day  of  doom, 

On  came  the  hurricane. 


The  lightning  flashed  from  cloud  to 
cloud, 

And  rent  the  sky  in  two  ; 

A jagged  flame,  a single  jet 
Of  white  fire,  like  a bayonet, 

That  pierced  the  eyeballs  through. 

Then  all  around  was  dark  again. 

And  blacker  than  before  ; 

But  in  that  single  flash  of  light 
He  had  beheld  a fearful  sight, 

And  thought  of  the  oath  he  swore. 

For  right  ahead  lay  the  Ship  of  the  Dead, 
The  ghostly  Carmilhan  ! 

Her  masts  were  stripped,  her  yards  were 
bare, 

And  on  her  bowsprit,  poised  in  air, 

Sat  the  Klaboterman. 

Her  crew  of  ghosts  was  all  on  deck 
Or  clambering  up  the  shrouds  ; 

The  boatswain’s  whistle,  the  captain’s 
hail, 

Were  like  the  piping  of  the  gale, 

And  thunder  in  the  clouds. 

And  close  behind  the  Carmilhan 
There  rose  up  from  the  sea, 

As  from  a foundered  ship  of  stone, 

Three  bare  and  splintered  masts  alone  : 
They  were  the  Chimneys  Three. 

And  onward  dashed  the  Yaldemar 
And  leaped  into  the  dark  ; 

A denser  mist,  a colder  blast, 

A little  shudder,  and  she  had  passed 
Right  through  the  Phantom  Bark. 

She  cleft  in  twain  the  shadowy  hulk, 
But  cleft  it  unaware  ; 

As  when,  careering  to  her  nest, 

The  sea-gull  severs  with  her  breast 
The  unresisting  air. 

Again  the  lightning  flashed  ; again 
They  saw  the  Carmilhan, 

Whole  as  before  in  hull  and  spar  ; 

But  now  on  board  of  the  Yaldemar 
Stood  the  Klaboterman. 

And  they  all  knew  their  doom  was  sealed ; 

They  knew  that  death  was  near  ; 
Some  prayed  who  never  prayed  before, 
And  some  they  wept,  and  some  they 
swore, 

And  some  were  mute  with  fear. 


LADY  WENTWORTH. 


283 


Then  suddenly  there  came  a shock, 

And  louder  than  wind  or  sea 
A cry  hurst  from  the  crew  on  deck, 

As  she  dashed  and  crashed,  a hopeless 
wreck, 

Upon  the  Chimneys  Three. 

The  storm  and  night  were  passed,  the 
light 

To  streak  the  east  began  ; 

The  cabin-boy,  picked  up  at  sea, 
Survived  the  wreck,  and  only  he, 

To  tell  of  the  Carmilhan. 


INTERLUDE. 

When  the  long  murmur  of  applause 
That  greeted  the  Musician’s  lay 
Had  slowly  buzzed  itself  away, 

And  the  long  talk  of  Spectre  Ships 
That  followed  died  upon  their  lips 
And  came  unto  a natural  pause, 

‘ * These  tales  you  tell  are  one  and  all 
Of  the  Old  World,”  the  Poet  said, 

“ Flowers  gathered  from  a crumbling 
wall, 

Dead  leaves  that  rustle  as  they  fall ; 

Let  me  present  you  in  their  stead 
Something  of  our  New  England  earth, 

A tale  which,  though  of  no  great  worth, 
Has  still  this  merit,  that  it  yields 
A certain  freshness  of  the  fields, 

A sweetness  as  of  home-made  bread.” 

The  Student  answered  : ‘ ‘ Be  discreet ; 
For  if  the  flour  be  fresh  and  sound, 

And  if  the  bread  be  light  and  sweet, 
Who  careth  in  what  mill ’t  was  ground, 
Or  of  what  oven  felt  the  heat, 

Unless,  as  old  Cervantes  said, 

You  are  looking  after  better  bread 
Than  any  that  is  made  of  wheat  ? 

You  know  that  people  nowadays 
To  what  is  old  give  little  praise  ; 

All  must  be  new  in  prose  and  verse  : 
They  want  hot  bread,  or  something 
worse. 

Fresh  every  morning,  and  half  baked  ; 
The  wholesome  bread  of  yesterday, 

Too  stale  for  them,  is  thrown  away, 

Nor  is  their  thirst  with  water  slaked.” 

As  oft  we  see  the  sky  in  May 
Threaten  to  rain,  and  yet  not  rain, 

The  Poet’s  face,  before  so  gay, 


Was  clouded  with  a look  of  pain, 
But  suddenly  brightened  up  again  ; 
And  without  further  let  or  stay 
He  told  his  tale  of  yesterday. 


THE  POET’S  TALE. 

LADY  WENTWORTH. 

One  hundred  years  ago,  and  something 
more, 

In  Queen  Street,  Portsmouth,  at  her  tav- 
ern door, 

Neat  as  a pin,  and  blooming  as  a rose, 
Stood  Mistress  Stavers  in  her  furbelows, 
Just  as  her  cuckoo-clock  was  striking 
nine. 

Above  her  head,  resplendent  on  the  sign, 
The  portrait  of  the  Earl  of  Halifax, 

In  scarlet  coat  and  periwig  of  flax, 
Surveyed  at  leisure  all  her  varied  charms, 
Her  cap,  her  bodice,  her  white  folded 
arms, 

And  half  resolved,  though  he  was  past 
his  prime, 

And  rather  damaged  by  the  lapse  of  time, 
To  fall  down  at  her  feet,  and  to  declare 
The  passion  that  had  driven  him  to 
despair. 

For  from  his  lofty  station  he  had  seen 
Stavers,  her  husband,  dressed  in  bottle- 
green, 

Drive  his  new  Flying  Stage-coach,  four 
in  hand, 

Down  the  long  lane,  and  out  into  the 
land, 

And  knew  that  he  was  far  upon  the  way 
To  Ipswich  and  to  Boston  on  the  Bay  ! 

Just  then  the  meditations  of  the  Earl 
Were  interrupted  by  a little  girl, 
Barefooted,  ragged,  with  neglected  hair, 
Eyes  full  of  laughter,  neck  and  shoulders 
bare., 

A thin  slip  of  a girl,  like  a new  moon, 
Sure  to  be  rounded  into  beauty  soon, 

A creature  men  would  worship  and  adore, 
Though  now  in  mean  habiliments  she 
bore 

A pail  of  water,  dripping,  through  the 
street, 

And  bathing,  as  she  went,  her  naked 
feet. 

It  was  a pretty  picture,  full  of  grace,  — 
The  slender  form,  the  delicate,  thin  face ; 


284 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


The  swaying  motion,  as  she  hurried  by  ; 
The  shining  feet,  the  laughter  in  her  eye, 
That  o’er  her  face  in  ripples  gleamed  and 
glanced, 

As  in  her  pail  the  shifting  sunbeam 
danced  : 

And  with  uncommon  feelings  of  delight 
The  Earl  of  Halifax  beheld  the  sight. 
Not  so  Dame  Stavers,  for  he  heard  her 
say 

These  words,  or  thought  he  did,  as  plain 
as  day  : 

“ 0 Martha  Hilton  ! Fie  ! how  dare  you 
go 

About  the  town  half  dressed,  and  looking 
so  ! ” 

At  which  the  gypsy  laughed,  and  straight 
replied  : 

“No  matter  how  I look  ; I yet  shall  ride 
In  my  own  chariot,  ma’am.”  And  on 
the  child 

The  Earl  of  Halifax  benignly  smiled, 

As  with  her  heavy  burden  she  passed  on, 
Looked  back,  then  turned  the  corner, 
and  was  gone. 

What  next,  upon  that  memorable  day, 
Arrested  his  attention  was  a gay 
And  brilliant  equipage,  that  flashed  and 
spun, 

The  silver  harness  glittering  in  the  sun, 
Outriders  with  red  jackets,  lithe  and 
lank, 

Pounding  the  saddles  as  they  rose  and 
sank, 

While  all  alone  within  the  chariot  sat 
A portly  person  with  three-cornered  hat, 
A crimson  velvet  coat,  head  high  in  air, 
Gold-headed  cane,  and  nicely  powdered 
hair, 

And  diamond  buckles  sparkling  at  his 
knees, 

Dignified,  stately,  florid,  much  at  ease. 
Onward  the  pageant  swept,  and  as  it 
passed, 

Fair  Mistress  Stavers  courtesied  low  and 
fast ; 

For  this  was  Governor  Wentworth,  driv- 
ing down 

To  Little  Harbor,  just  beyond  the  town, 
Where  his  Great  House  stood  looking 
out  to  sea, 

A goodly  place,  where  it  was  good  to  be. 

It  was  a pleasant  mansion,  an  abode 
N ear  and  yet  hidden  from  the  great  high- 
road, 


Sequestered  among  trees,  a noble  pile, 

Baronial  and  colonial  in  its  style  ; 

Gables  and  dormer-windows  everywhere, 

And  stacks  of  chimneys  rising  high  in 
air,  — 

Pandsean  pipes,  on  which  all  winds  that 
blew 

Made  mournful  music  the  whole  winter 
through. 

Within,  unwonted  splendors  met  the 
eye, 

Panels,  and  floors  of  oak,  and  tapes- 
try ; 

Carved  chimney-pieces,  where  on  brazen 
dogs 

Revelled  and  roared  the  Christmas  fires 
of  logs  ; 

Doors  opening  into  darkness  unawares, 

Mysterious  passages,  and  flights  of 
stairs  ; 

And  on  the  walls,  in  heavy  gilded 
frames, 

The  ancestral  Wentworths  with  Old- 
Scripture  names. 

Such  was  the  mansion  where  the  great 
man  dwelt, 

A widower  and  childless ; and  he 
felt 

The  loneliness,  the  uncongenial  gloom, 

That  like  a presence  haunted  every 
room  ; 

For  though  not  given  to  weakness,  he 
could  feel 

The  pain  of  wounds,  that  ache  because 
they  heal. 

The  years  came  and  the  years  went,  — 
seven  in  all, 

And  passed  in  cloud  and  sunshine  o’er 
the  Hall  ; 

The  dawns  their  splendor  through  its 
chambers  shed, 

The  sunsets  flushed  its  western  windows 
red  ; 

The  snow  was  on  its  roofs,  the  wind,  the 
rain  ; 

Its  woodlands  were  in  leaf  and  bare 
again  ; 

Moons  waxed  and  waned,  the  lilacs 
bloomed  and  died, 

In  the  broad  river  ebbed  and  flowed  the 
tide, 

Ships  went  to  sea,  and  ships  came  home 
from  sea, 

And  the  slow  years  sailed  by  and  ceased 
to  be. 


LADY  WENTWORTH. 


285 


And  all  these  years  had  Martha  Hilton 
served 

In  the  Great  House,  not  wholly  unob- 
served : 

By  day,  by  night,  the  silver  crescent 
grew, 

Though  hidden  by  clouds,  her  light 
still  shining  through  ; 

A maid  of  all  work,  whether  coarse  or 
fine, 

A servant  who  made  service  seem  divine  ! 

Through  her  each  room  was  fair  to  look 
upon  ; 

The  mirrors  glistened,  and  the  brasses 
shone, 

The  very  knocker  on  the  outer  door, 

If  she  but  passed,  was  brighter  than  be- 
fore. 

And  now  the  ceaseless  turning  of  the 
mill 

Of  Time,  that  never  for  an  hour  stands 
still, 

Ground  out  the  Governor’s  sixtieth 
birthday. 

And  powdered  his  brown  hair  with  sil- 
ver-gray. 

The  robin,  the  forerunner  of  the  spring, 

The  bluebird  with  his  jocund  carolling, 

The  restless  swallows  building  in  the 
eaves, 

The  golden  buttercups,  the  grass,  the 
leaves, 

The  lilacs  tossing  in  the  winds  of  May, 

All  welcomed  this  majestic  holiday  ! 

He  gave  a splendid  banquet,  served  on 
plate, 

Such  as  became  the  Governor  of  the 
State, 

Who  represented  England  and  the  King, 

And  was  magnificent  in  everything. 

He  had  invited  all  his  friends  and 
peers,  — 

The  Pepperels,  the  Langdons,  and  the 
Lears, 

The  Sparhawks,  the  Penhallows,  and  the 
rest ; 

For  why  repeat  the  name  of  every 
guest  ? 

But  I must  mention  one,  in  bands  and 
gown, 

The  rector  there,  the  Reverend  Arthur 
Brown 

Of  the  Established  Church  ; with  smil- 
ing face 

He  sat  beside  the  Governor  and  said 
grace  ; 


And  then  the  feast  went  on,  as  others  do, 

But  ended  as  none  other  I e’er  knew. 

When  they  had  drunk  the  King,  with 
many  a cheer, 

The  Governor  whispered  in  a servant’s 
ear, 

Who  disappeared,  and  presently  there 
stood 

Within  the  room,  in  perfect  womanhood, 

A maiden,  modest  and  yet  self-possessed, 

Youthful  and  beautiful,  and  simply 
dressed. 

Can  this  be  Martha  Hilton?  It  must 
be  ! 

Yes,  Martha  Hilton,  and  no  other  she  ! 

Dowered  with  the  beauty  of  her  twenty 
years, 

How  ladylike,  how  queenlike  she  ap- 
pears ; 

The  pale,  thin  crescent  of  the  days  gone 
by 

Is  Dian  now  in  all  her  majesty  ! 

Yet  scarce  a guest  perceived  that  she 
was  there, 

Until  the  Governor,  rising  from  his 
chair, 

Played  slightly  with  his  ruffles,  then 
looked  down, 

And  said  unto  the  Reverend  Arthur 
Brown : 

“ This  is  my  birthday  : it  shall  likewise 
be 

My  wedding-day  ; and  you  shall  marry 
me!” 

The  listening  guests  were  greatly  mysti- 
fied, 

None  more  so  than  the  rector,  who  re- 
plied : 

“ Marry  you  ? Yes,  that  were  a pleas- 
ant task, 

Your  Excellency ; but  to  whom  ? I 
ask.” 

The  Governor  answered  : “To  this  lady 
here  ” ; 

And  beckoned  Martha  Hilton  to  draw 
near. 

She  came  and  stood,  all  blushes,  at  his 
side. 

The  rector  paused.  The  impatient  Gov- 
ernor cried  : 

“ This  is  the  lady  ; do  you  hesitate  ? 

Then  I command  you  as  Chief  Magis- 
trate.” 

The  rector  read  the  service  loud  and 
clear  : 


286 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


“ Dearly  beloved,  we  are  gathered  here,” 
And  so  on  to  the  end.  At  his  command 
On  the  fourth  linger  of  her  fair  left  hand 
The  Governor  placed  the  ring  ; and  that 
was  all  : 

Martha  was  Lady  Wentworth  of  the 
Hall! 


INTERLUDE. 

Well  pleased  the  audience  heard  the 
tale. 

The  Theologian  said  : “ Indeed, 

To  praise  you  there  is  little  need  ; 

One  almost  hears  the  farmer’s  flail 
Thresh  out  your  wheat,  nor  does  there  fail 
A certain  freshness,  as  you  said, 

And  sweetness  as  of  home-made  bread. 
But  not  less  sweet  and  not  less  fresh 
Are  many  legends  that  I know, 

Writ  by  the  monks  of  long-ago, 

Who  loved  to  mortify  the  flesh, 

So  that  the  soul  might  purer  grow, 

And  rise  to  a diviner  state  ; 

And  one  of  these  — perhaps  of  all 
Most  beautiful  — I now  recall, 

And  with  permission  will  narrate  ; 
Hoping  thereby  to  make  amends 
For  that  grim  tragedy  of  mine, 

As  strong  and  black  as  Spanish  wine, 

I told  last  night,  and  wish  almost 
It  had  remained  untold,  my  friends  ; 

For  Torquemada’s  awful  ghost 
Came  to  me  in  the  dreams  I dreamed, 
And  in  the  darkness  glared  and  gleamed 
Like  a great  lighthouse  on  the  coast.” 

The  Student  laughing  said  : “Far  more 
Like  to  some  dismal  fire  of  bale 
Flaring  portentous  on  a hill ; 

Or  torches  lighted  on  a shore 
By  wreckers  in  a midnight  gale. 

N o matter  ; be  it  as  you  will, 

Only  go  forward  with  your  tale.” 


THE  THEOLOGIAN’S  TALE. 

THE  LEGEND  BEAUTIFUL. 

“ Hadst  thou  stayed,  I must  have 
. fled  ! ” 

That  is  what  the  Vision  said. 

In  his  chamber  all  alone, 

Kneeling  on  the  floor  of  stone, 


Prayed  the  Monk  in  deep  contrition 
For  his  sins  of  indecision, 

Prayed  for  greater  self-denial 
In  temptation  and  in  trial  ; 

It  was  noonday  by  the  dial, 

And  the  Monk  was  all  alone. 

Suddenly,  as  if  it  lightened, 

An  unwonted  splendor  brightened 
All  within  him  and  without  him 
In  that  narrow  cell  of  stone  ; 

And  he  saw  the  Blessed  Vision 
Of  our  Lord,  with  light  Elysian 
Like  a vesture  wrapped  about  him, 

Like  a garment  round  him  thrown. 

Not  as  crucified  and  slain, 

Not  in  agonies  of  pain, 

Not  with  bleeding  hands  and  feet, 

Did  the  Monk  his  Master  see  ; 

But  as  in  the  village  street, 

In  the  house  or  harvest-field, 

Halt  and  lame  and  blind  he  healed, 
When  he  walked  in  Galilee. 

In  an  attitude  imploring, 

Hands  upon  his  bosom  crossed, 
Wondering,  worshipping,  adoring, 

Knelt  the  Monk  in  rapture  lost. 

Lord,  he  thought,  in  heaven  that  reign- 
est, 

Who  am  I,  that  thus  thou  deignest 
To  reveal  thyself  to  me  ? 

Who  am  I,  that  from  the  centre 
Of  thy  glory  thou  shouldst  enter 
This  poor  cell,  my  guest  to  be  ? 

Then  amid  his  exaltation, 

Loud  the  convent  bell  appalling, 

From  its  belfry  calling,  calling, 

Rang  through  court  and  corridor 
With  persistent  iteration 
He  had  never  heard  before. 

It  was  now  the  appointed  hour 
When  alike  in  shine  or  shower, 

Winter’s  cold  or  summer’s  heat, 

To  the  convent  portals  came 
All  the  blind  and  halt  and  lame, 

All  the  beggars  of  the  street, 

For  their  daily  dole  of  food 
Dealt  them  by  the  brotherhood  ; 

And  their  almoner  was  he 
Who  upon  his  bended  knee, 

Rapt  in  silent  ecstasy 
Of  divinest  self-surrender, 

Saw  the  Vision  and  the  Splendor. 


INTERLUDE. 


287 


Deep  distress  and  hesitation 
Mingled  with  his  adoration  ; 

Should  he  go,  or  should  he  stay  ? 
Should  lie  leave  the  poor  to  wait 
Hungry  at  the  convent  gate, 

Till  the  Vision  passed  away  ? 

Should  he  slight  his  radiant  guest, 
Slight  this  visitant  celestial, 

For  a crowd  of  ragged,  bestial 
Beggars  at  the  convent  gate  ? 

Would  the  Vision  there  remain  ? 
Would  the  Vision  come  again  ? 

Then  a voice  within  his  breast 
Whispered,  audible  and  clear 
As  if  to  the  outward  ear  : 

“ Do  thy  duty  ; that  is  best  ; 

Leave  unto  thy  Lord  the  rest  ! ” 

Straightway  to  his  feet  he  started, 

And  with  longing  look  intent 
On  the  Blessed  Vision  bent, 

Slowly  from  his  cell  departed, 

Slowly  on  his  errand  went. 

At  the  gate  the  poor  were  waiting, 
Looking  through  the  iron  grating, 
With  that  terror  in  the  eye 
That  is  only  seen  in  those 
Who  amid  their  wants  and  woes 
Hear  the  sound  of  doors  that  close, 
And  of  feet  that  pass  them  by  ; 

Grown  familiar  with  disfavor, 

Grown  familiar  with  the  savor 
Of  the  bread  by  which  men  die  ! 

But  to-day,  they  knew  not  why, 

Like  the  gate  of  Paradise 
Seemed  the  convent  gate  to  rise, 

Like  a sacrament  divine 

Seemed  to  them  the  bread  and  wine. 

In  his  heart  the  Monk  was  praying, 
Thinking  of  the  homeless  poor, 

What  they  suffer  and  endure  ; 

What  we  see  not,  what  we  see  ; 

And  the  inward  voice  was  saying  : 

“ Whatsoever  thing  thou  doest 
To  the  least  of  mine  and  lowest, 

That  thou  doest  unto  me  ! ” 

Unto  me  ! but  had  the  Vision 
Come  to  him  in  beggar’s  clothing, 
Come  a mendicant  imploring, 

Would  he  then  have  knelt  adoring, 

Or  have  listened  with  derision, 

And  have  turned  away  with  loathing  ? 

Thus  his  conscience  put  the  question, 
Full  of  troublesome  suggestion, 


As  at  length,  with  hurried  pace, 
Towards  his  cell  he  turned  his  face, 

And  beheld  the  convent  bright 
With  a supernatural  light, 

Like  a luminous  cloud  expanding 
Over  floor  and  wall  and  ceiling. 

But  he  paused  with  awe-struck  feeling 
At  the  threshold  of  his  door, 

For  the  Vision  still  was  standing 
As  he  left  it  there  before, 

When  the  convent  bell  appalling, 

From  its  belfry  calling,  calling, 
Summoned  him  to  feed  the  poor. 
Through  the  long  hour  intervening 
It  had  waited  his  return, 

And  he  felt  his  bosom  burn, 
Comprehending  all  the  meaning, 

When  the  Blessed  Vision  said, 

“ Hadst  thou  stayed,  I must  have 
fled  ! ” 


INTERLUDE. 

All  praised  the  Legend  more  or  less  ; 
Some  liked  the  moral,  some  the  verse  ; 
Some  thought  it  better,  and  some  worse 
Than  other  legends  of  the  past ; 

Until,  with  ill-concealed  distress 
At  all  their  cavilling,  at  last 
The  Theologian  gravely  said  : 

“ The  Spanish  proverb,  then,  is  right  ; 
Consult  your  friends  on  what  you  do, 
And  one  will  say  that  it  is  white, 

And  others  say  that  it  is  red.” 

And  “ Amen  ! ” quoth  the  Spanish  Jew. 

“Six  stories  told!  We  must  have 
seven, 

A cluster  like  the  Pleiades, v 
And  lo  ! it  happens,  as  with  these, 

That  one  is  missing  from  our  heaven. 
Where  is  the  Landlord  ? Bring  him 
here  ; 

Let  the  Lost  Pleiad  reappear.” 

Thus  the  Sicilian  cried,  and  went 
Forthwith  to  seek  his  missing  star, 

But  did  not  find  him  in  the  bar, 

A place  that  landlords  most  frequent, 
Nor  yet  beside  the  kitchen  fire, 

Nor  up  the  stairs,  nor  in  the  hall ; 

It  was  in  vain  to  ask  or  call, 

There  were  no  tidings  of  the  Squire. 

So  he  came  back  with  downcast  head, 
Exclaiming  : “ Well,  our  bashful  host 


283 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


Hath  surely  given  up  the  ghost.  # 
Another  proverb  says  the  dead 
Can  tell  no  tales  ; and  that  is  true. 

It  follows,  then,  that  one  of  you 
Must  tell  a story  in  his  stead. 

You  must,”  he  to  the  Student  said, 

“ Who  know  so  many  of  the  best, 

And  tell  them  better  than  the  rest.” 

Straight,  by  these  flattering  words  be- 
guiled, 

The  Student,  happy  as  a child 
When  he  is  called  a little  man, 

Assumed  the  double  task  imposed, 

And  without  more  ado  unclosed 
His  smiling  lips,  and  thus  began. 


THE  STUDENT’S  SECOND  TALE. 

THE  BARON  OF  ST.  CASTINE. 

Baron  Castine  of  St.  Castine 
Has  left  his  chateau  in  the  Pyrenees, 
And  sailed  across  the  western  seas. 

When  he  went  away  from  his  fair  demesne 
The  birds  were  building,  the  woods  were 
green  ; 

And  now  the  winds  of  winter  blow 
Bound  the  turrets  of  the  old  chateau, 
The  birds  are  silent  and  unseen, 

The  leaves  lie  dead  in  the  ravine, 

And  the  Pyrenees  are  white  with  snow. 

His  father,  lonely,  old,  and  gray, 

Sits  by  the  fireside  day  by  day, 

Thinking  ever  one  thought  of  care  ; 
Through  the  southern  windows,  narrow 
and  tall, 

The  sun  shines  into  the  ancient  hall, 
And  makes  a glory  round  his  hair. 

The  house-dog,  stretched  beneath  his 
chair, 

Groans  in  his  sleep  as  if  in  pain, 

Then  wakes,  and  yawns,  and  sleeps 
again, 

So  silent  is  it  everywhere,  — 

So  silent  you  can  hear  the  mouse 
Bun  and  rummage  along  the  beams 
Behind  the  wainscot  of  the  wall ; 

And  the  old  man  rouses  from  his  dreams, 
And  wanders  restless  through  the  house, 
As  if  he  heard  strange  voices  call. 

His  footsteps  echo  along  the  floor 
Of  a distant  passage,  and  pause  awhile  ; 
He  is  standing  by  an  open  door 
Looking  long,  with  a sad,  sweet  smile, 


Into  the  room  of  his  absent  son. 

There  is  the  bed  on  which  he  lay, 

There  are  the  pictures  bright  and  gay, 
Horses  and  hounds  and  sun-lit  seas  ; 
There  are  his  powder-flask  and  gun, 

And  his  hunting-knives  in  shape  of  a fan  ; 
The  chair  by  the  window  where  he  sat, 
With  the  clouded  tiger-skin  for  a mat, 
Looking  out  on  the  Pyrenees, 

Looking  out  on  Mount  Marbore 
And  the  Seven  Valleys  of  Lavedan. 

Ah  me  ! he  turns  away  and  sighs  ; 

There  is  a mist  before  his  eyes. 

At  night,  whatever  the  weather  be, 

Wind  or  rain  or  starry  heaven, 

Just  as  the  clock  is  striking  seven, 

Those  who  look  from  the  windows  see 
The  village  Curate,  with  lantern  and 
maid, 

Come  through  the  gateway  from  the  park 
And  cross  the  courtyard  damp  and 
dark, — 

A ring  of  light  in  a ring  of  shade. 

And  nowT  at  the  old  man’s  side  he  stands. 
His  voice  is  cheery,  his  heart  expands, 
Pie  gossips  pleasantly,  by  the  blaze 
Of  the  fire  of  fagots,  about  old  days, 

And  Cardinal  Mazarin  and  the  Fronde, 
And  the  Cardinal’s  nieces  fair  and  fond, 
And  what  they  did,  and  what  they  said, 
When  they  heard  his  Eminence  was  dead. 

And  after  a pause  the  old  man  says, 

His  mind  still  coming  back  again 
To  the  one  sad  thought  that  haunts  his 
brain, 

“ Are  there  any  tidings  from  over  sea  ? 
Ah,  why  has  that  wTild  boy  gone  from 
me  ? ” 

And  the  Curate  answers,  looking  down, 
Harmless  and  docile  as  a lamb, 

“ Young  blood  ! young  blood  ! It  must 
so  be  ! ” 

And  draws  from  the  pocket  of  his  gown 
A handkerchief  like  an  oriflamb, 

And  wipes  his  spectacles,  and  they  play 
Their  little  game  of  lansquenet 
In  silence  for  an  hour  or  so, 

Till  the  clock  at  nine  strikes  loud  and 
clear 

From  the  village  tying  asleep  below, 
And  across  the  courtyard,  into  the  dark 
Of  the  winding  pathway  in  the  park. 
Curate  and  lantern  disappear, 

And  darkness  reigns  in  the  old  chateau. 


THE  BARON  OF  ST.  CASTINE. 


289 


The  ship  has  come  back  from  over 
sea, 

She  has  been  signalled  from  below, 

And  into  the  harbor  of  Bordeaux 
She  sails  with  her  gallant  company. 

But  among  them  is  nowhere  seen 
The  brave  young  Baron  of  St.  Castine  ; 
He  hath  tarried  behind,  I ween, 

In  the  beautiful  land  of  Acadie  ! 

And  the  father  paces  to  and  fro 
Through  the  chambers  of  the  old  chateau, 
Waiting,  waiting  to  hear  the  hum 
Of  wheels  on  the  road  that  runs  below, 
Of  servants  hurrying  here  and  there, 

The  voice  in  the  courtyard,  the  step  on 
the  stair, 

Waiting  for  some  one  who  doth  not 
come  ! 

But  letters  there  are,  which  the  old  man 
reads 

To  the  Curate,  when  he  comes  at  night, 
Word  by  word,  as  an  acolyte 
Repeats  his  prayers  and  tells  his  beads  ; 
Letters  full  of  the  rolling  sea, 

Full  of  a young  man’s  joy  to  be 
Abroad  in  the  world,  alone  and  free  ; 
Full  of  adventures  and  wonderful  scenes 
Of  hunting  the  deer  through  forests 
vast 

In  the  royal  grant  of  Pierre  du  Gast ; 

Of  nights  in  the  tents  of  the  Tarratines  ; 
Of  Madocawando  the  Indian  chief, 

And  his  daughters,  glorious  as  queens, 
And  beautiful  beyond  belief ; 

And  so  soft  the  tones  of  their  native 
tongue, 

The  words  are  not  spoken,  they  are  sung  ! 

And  the  Curate  listens,  and  smiling  says : 
“ Ah  yes,  dear  friend  ! in  our  young  days 
We  should  have  liked  to  hunt  the  deer 
All  day  amid  those  forest  scenes, 

And  to  sleep  in  the  tents  of  the  Tarra- 
tines ; 

But  now  it  is  better  sitting  here 
Within  four  walls,  and  without  the  fear 
Of  losing  our  hearts  to  Indian  queens  ; 
For  man  is  lire  and  woman  is  tow, 

And  the  Somebody  comes  and  begins  to 
blow.” 

Then  a gleam  of  distrust  and  vague  sur- 
mise 

Shines  in  the  father’s  gentle  eyes, 

As  fire-light  on  a window-pane 
Glimmers  and  vanishes  again  ; 

But  naught  he  answers  ; he  only  sighs, 

19 


And  for  a moment  bows  his  head  ; 

Then,  as  their  custom  is,  they  play 
Their  little  game  of  lansquenet, 

And  another  day  is  with  the  dead. 

Another  day,  and  many  a day 
And  many  a week  and  month  depart, 
When  a fatal  letter  wings  its  way 
Across  the  sea,  like  a bird  of  prey, 

And  strikes  and  tears  the  old  man’s 
heart. 

Lo  ! the  young  Baron  of  St.  Castine, 
Swift  as  the  wind  is,  and  as  wild, 

Has  married  a dusky  Tarratine, 

Has  married  Madocawando’s  child  ! 

The  letter  drops  from  the  father’s  hand  ; 
Though  the  sinews  of  his  heart  are 
wrung, 

He  utters  no  cry,  he  breathes  no  prayer, 
No  malediction  falls  from  his  tongue  ; 
But  his  stately  figure,  erect  and  grand, 
Bends  and  sinks  like  a column  of  sand 
In  the  whirlwind  of  his  great  despair. 
Dying,  yes,  dying  ! His  latest  breath 
Of  parley  at  the  door  of  death 
Is  a blessing  on  his  wayward  son. 

Lower  and  lower  on  his  breast 
Sinks  his  gray  head  ; he  is  at  rest  ; 

No  longer  he  waits  for  any  one. 

For  many  a year  the  old  chateau 
Lies  tenantless  and  desolate  ; 

Rank  grasses  in  the  courtyard  grow, 
About  its  gables  caws  the  crow  ; 

Only  the  porter  at  the  gate 
Is  left  to  guard  it,  and  to  wait 
The  coming  of  the  rightful  heir  ; 

No  other  life  or  sound  is  there  ; 

No  more  the  Curate  comes  at  night, 

No  more  is  seen  the  unsteady  light, 
Threading  the  alleys  of  the  park  ; 

The  windows  of  the  hall  are  dark, 

The  chambers  dreary,  cold,  and  bare  ! 

At  length,  at  last,  when  the  winter  is 
past, 

And  birds  are  building,  and  woods  are 
green, 

With  flying  skirts  is  the  Curate  seen 
Speeding  along  the  woodland  way, 
Humming  gayly, “No  day  is  so  long 
But  it  comes  at  last  to  vesper-song.” 

He  stops  at  the  porter’s  lodge  to  say 
That  at  last  the  Baron  of  St.  Castine 
Is  coming  home  with  his  Indian  queen, 
Is  coming  without  a week’s  delay  ; 


290 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


And  all  the  house  must  be  swept  and 
clean, 

And  all  things  set  in  good  array  ! 

And  the  solemn  porter  shakes  his  head  ; 
And  the  answer  he  makes  is  : “ Lacka- 
day  ! 

We  will  see,  as  the  blind  man  said  ! ” 

Alert  since  first  the  day  began, 

The  cock  upon  the  village  church 
Looks  northward  from  his  airy  perch, 

As  if  beyond  the  ken  of  man 
To  see  the  ships  come  sailing  on, 

And  pass  the  Isle  of  Oleron, 

And  pass  the  Tower  of  Cordouan. 

In  the  church  below  is  cold  in  clay 
The  heart  that  would  have  leaped  for 

j°y  — 

0 tender  heart  of  truth  and  trust  ! — 

To  see  the  coming  of  that  day  ; 

In  the  church  below  the  lips  are  dust ; 
Dust  are  the  hands,  and  dust  the  feet, 
That  would  have  been  so  swift  to  meet 
The  coming  of  that  wayward  boy. 

At  night  the  front  of  the  old  chateau 
Is  a blaze  of  light  above  and  below  ; 
There  ’s  a sound  of  wheels  and  hoofs  in 
the  street, 

A cracking  of  whips,  and  scamper  of 
feet, 

Bells  are  ringing,  and  horns  are  blown, 
And  the  Baron  hath  come  again  to  his 
own. 

The  Curate  is  waiting  in  the  hall, 

Most  eager  and  alive  of  all 
To  welcome  the  Baron  and  Baroness ; 
But  his  mind  is  full  of  vague  distress, 
For  he  hath  read  in  Jesuit  books 
Of  those  children  of  the  wilderness, 

And  now,  good,  simple  man  ! he  looks 
To  see  a painted  savage  stride 
Into  the  room,  with  shoulders  bare, 

And  eagle  feathers  in  her  hair, 

And  around  her  a robe  of  panther’s  hide. 

Instead,  he  beholds  with  secret  shame 
A form  of  beauty  undefined, 

A loveliness  without  a name, 

Not  of  degree,  but  more  of  kind  ; 

Nor  bold  nor  shy,  nor  short  nor  tall, 

But  a new  mingling  of  them  all. 

Yes,  beautiful  beyond  belief, 

Transfigured  and  transfused,  he  sees 
The  lady  of  the  Pyrenees, 

The  daughter  of  the  Indian  chief. 


Beneath  the  shadow  of  her  hair 
The  gold-bronze  color  of  the  skin 
Seems  lighted  by  a fire  within, 

As  when  a burst  of  sunlight  shines 
Beneath  a sombre  grove  of  pines,  — 

A dusky  splendor  in  the  air. 

The  two  small  hands,  that  now  are 
pressed 

In  his,  seem  made  to  be  caressed, 

They  lie  so  warm  and  soft  and  still, 

Like  birds  half  hidden  in  a nest, 
Trustful,  and  innocent  of  ill. 

And  ah  ! he  cannot  believe  his  ears 
When  her  melodious  voice  he  hears 
Speaking  his  native  Gascon  tongue  ; 

The  words  she  utters  seem  to  be 
Part  of  some  poem  of  Goudouli, 

They  are  not  spoken,  they  are  sung  ! 
And  the  Baron  smiles,  and  says,  “You 
see, 

I told  you  but  the  simple  truth  ; 

Ah,  you  may  trust  the  e3res  of  youth  ! M 

Down  in  the  village  day  by  day 
The  people  gossip  in  their  way, 

And  stare  to  see  the  Baroness  pass 
On  Sunday  morning  to  early  Mass  ; 

And  when  she  kneeleth  down  to  pray, 
They  wonder,  and  whisper  together,  and 
say, 

“ Surely  tins  is  no  heathen  lass  ! ” 

And  in  course  of  time  they  learn  to 
bless 

The  Baron  and  the  Baroness. 

And  in  course  of  time  the  Curate  learns 
A secret  so  dreadful,  that  by  turns 
He  is  ice  and  fire,  he  freezes  and  burns. 
The  Baron  at  confession  hath  said, 

That  though  this  woman  be  his  wife, 

He  hath  wed  her  as  the  Indians  wed, 

He  hath  bought  her  for  a gun  and  a 
knife  ! 

And  the  Curate  replies  : “ 0 profligate, 

0 Prodigal  Son  ! return  once  more 
To  the  open  arms  and  the  open  door 
Of  the  Church,  or  ever  it  be  too  late. 
Thank  God,  thy  father  did  not  live 
To  see  what  he  could  not  forgive  ; 

On  thee,  so  reckless  and  perverse, 

He  left  his  blessing,  not  his  curse. 

But  the  nearer  the  dawn  the  darker  the 
night, 

And  by  going  wrong  all  things  come 
right  ; 

Things  have  been  mended  that  were 
worse, 


FINALE. 


291 


And  the  worse,  the  nearer  they  are  to 
mend. 

For  the  sake  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Thou  shalt  be  wed  as  Christians  wed, 
And  all  things  come  to  a happy  end.” 

0 sun,  that  followest  the  night, 

In  yon  blue  sky,  serene  and  pure, 

And  pourest  thine  impartial  light 
Alike  on  mountain  and  on  moor, 

Pause  for  a moment  in  thy  course, 

And  bless  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  ! 
0 Gave,  that  from  thy  hidden  source 
In  yon  mysterious  mountain-side 
Pursuest  thy  wandering  way  alone, 

And  leaping  down  its  steps  of  stone, 
Along  the  meadow-lands  demure 
Stealest  away  to  the  Adour, 

Pause  for  a moment  in  thy  course 
To  bless  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  ! 

The  choir  is  singing  the  matin  song, 

The  doors  of  the  church  are  opened 
wide, 

The  people  crowd,  and  press,  and  throng 
To  see  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 
They  enter  and  pass  along  the  nave  ; 
They  stand  upon  the  father’s  grave  ; 

The  bells  are  ringing  soft  and  slow  ; 

The  living  above  and  the  dead  below 
Give  their  blessing  on  one  and  twain  ; 
The  warm  wind  blows  from  the  hills  of 
Spain, 

The  birds  are  building,  the  leaves  are 
green, 

And  Baron  Castine  of  St.  Castine 
Hath  come  at  last  to  his  own  again. 


FINALE. 

“ Nunc  plauclite  ! ” the  Student  cried, 
When  he  had  finished  ; “now  applaud, 


As  Roman  actors  used  to  say 
At  the  conclusion  of  a play”  ; 

And  rose,  and  spread  his  hands  abroad, 
And  smiling  bowed  from  side  to  side, 

As  one  who  bears  the  palm  away. 

And  generous  was  the  applause  and  loud, 
But  less  for  him  than  for  the  sun, 

That  even  as  the  tale  was  done 
Burst  from  its  canopy  of  cloud, 

And  lit  the  landscape  with  the  blaze 
Of  afternoon  on  autumn  days. 

And  filled  the  room  with  light,  and 
made 

The  fire  of  logs  a painted  shade. 

A sudden  wind  from  out  the  west 
Blew  all  its  trumpets  loud  and  shrill ; 
The  windows  rattled  with  the  blast, 

The  oak-trees  shouted  as  it  passed, 

And  straight,  as  if  by  fear  possessed, 

The  cloud  encampment  on  the  hill 
Broke  up,  and  fluttering  flag  and  tent 
Vanished  into  the  firmament, 

And  down  the  valley  fled  amain 
The  rear  of  the  retreating  rain. 

Only  far  up  in  the  blue  sky 
A mass  of  clouds,  like  drifted  snow 
Suffused  with  a faint  Alpine  glow, 

Was  heaped  together,  vast  and  high, 

On  which  a shattered  rainbow  hung, 

Not  rising  like  the  ruined  arch 
Of  some  aerial  aqueduct, 

But  like  a roseate  garland  plucked 
From  an  Olympian  god,  and  flung 
Aside  in  his  triumphal  march. 

Like  prisoners  from  their  dungeon  gloom, 
Like  birds  escaping  from  a snare, 

Like  school-boys  at  the  hour  of  play, 

All  left  at  once  the  pent-up  room, 

And  rushed  into  the  open  air  ; 

And  no  more  tales  were  told  that  day. 


292 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


PART  THIRD. 


PRELUDE. 

The  evening  came  ; the  golden  vane 
A moment  in  the  sunset  glanced, 

Then  darkened,  and  then  gleamed  again, 
As  from  the  east  the  moon  advanced 
And  touched  it  with  a softer  light  ; 
While  underneath,  with  flowing  mane, 
Upon  the  sign  the  Red  Horse  pranced, 
And  galloped  forth  into  the  night. 

But  brighter  than  the  afternoon 
That  followed  the  dark  day  of  rain, 

And  brighter  than  the  golden  vane 
That  glistened  in  the  rising  moon, 
Within  the  ruddy  fire-light  gleamed  ; 
And  every  separate  window-pane, 
Backed  by  the  outer  darkness,  showed 
A mirror,  where  the  flamelets  gleamed 
And  flickered  to  and  fro,  and  seemed 
A bonfire  lighted  in  the  road. 

Amid  the  hospitable  glow, 

Like  an  old  actor  on  the  stage, 

With  the  uncertain  voice  of  age, 

The  singing  chimney  chanted  low 
The  homely  songs  of  long  ago. 

The  voice  that  Ossian  heard  of  yore, 
When  midnight  winds  were  in  his  hall  ; 
A ghostly  and  appealing  call, 

A sound  of  days  that  are  no  more  ! 

And  dark  as  Ossian  sat  the  Jew, 

And  listened  to  the  sound,  and  knew 
The  passing  of  the  airy  hosts, 

The  gray  and  misty  cloud  of  ghosts 
In  their  interminable  flight  ; 

And  listening  muttered  in  his  beard, 
With  accent  indistinct  and  weird, 

“ Who  are  ye,  children  of  the  Night  ? ” 

Beholding  his  mysterious  face, 

“ Tell  me,”  the  gay  Sicilian  said, 

“ Why  was  it  that  in  breaking  bread 
At  supper,  you  bent  down  your  head 
And,  musing,  paused  a little  space, 

As  one  who  says  a silent  grace  ? ” 

The  Jew  replied,  with  solemn  airH 
“ I said  the  Manichsean’s  prayer, 
it  was  his  faith,  — perhaps  is  mine,  — 
That  life  in  all  its  forms  is  one, 

And  that  its  secret  conduits  run 


Unseen,  but  in  unbroken  line, 

From  the  great  fountain-head  divine 
Through  man  and  beast,  through  grain 
and  grass. 

Howe’er  we  struggle,  strive,  and  cry  . 
From  death  there  can  be  no  escape, 

And  no  escape  from  life,  alas  ! 

Because  we  cannot  die,  but  pass 
from  one  into  another  shape  : 

It  is  but  into  life  we  die. 

“ Therefore  the  Manichsean  said 
This  simple  prayer  on  breaking  bread, 
Lest  he  with  hasty  hand  or  knife 
Might  wound  the  incarcerated  life, 

The  soul  in  things  that  we  call  dead  : 

4 1 did  not  reap  thee,  did  not  bind  thee, 
I did  not  thrash  thee,  did  not  grind 
thee, 

Nor  did  I in  the  oven  bake  thee  ! 

It  was  not  I,  it  was  another 

Did  these  things  unto  thee,  O brother  ; 

I only  have  thee,  hold  thee,  break 
thee  ! ’” 

4 4 That  birds  have  souls  I can  concede,” 
The  poet  cried,  with  glowing  cheeks  ; 

44  The  flocks  that  from  their  beds  of  reed 
Uprising  north  or  southward  fly, 

And  flying  write  upon  the  sky 
The  biforked  letter  of  the  Greeks, 

As  hath  been  said  by  Rucellai ; 

Ail  birds  that  sing  or  chirp  or  cry, 

Even  those  migratory  bands, 

The  minor  poets  of  the  air, 

The  plover,  peep,  and  sanderling, 

That  hardly  can  be  said  to  sing, 

But  pipe  along  the  barren  sands,  — 

All  these  have  souls  akin  to  ours  ; 

So  hath  the  lovely  race  of  flowers  : 

Thus  much  I grant,  but  nothing  more. 

The  rusty  hinges  of  a door 

Are  not  alive  because  they  creak  ; 

This  chimney,  with  its  dreary  roar, 
These  rattling  windows,  do  not  speak  ! ” 
44  To  me  they  speak,”  the  Jew  replied  ; 

44  And  in  the  sounds  that  sink  and  soar, 

I hear  the  voices  of  a tide 

That  breaks  upon  an  unknown  shore  ! ” 

Here  the  Sicilian  interfered  : 

“That  was  your  dream,  then,  as  you 
dozed 


INTERLUDE.  293 


A moment  since,  with  eyes  lialf-closed, 
And  murmured  something  in  your 
heard.” 

The  Hebrew  smiled,  and  answered, 
“Nay  ; 

Not  that,  but  something  very  near  ; 
Like,  and  yet  not  the  same,  may  seem 
The  vision  of  my  waking  dream  ; 

Before  it  wholly  dies  away, 

Listen  to  me,  and  you  shall  hear.” 


THE  SPANISH  JEW’S  TALE. 

AZRAEL. 

King  Solomon,  before  his  palace  gate 
At  evening,  on  the  pavement  tessellate 
Was  walking  with  a stranger  from  the 
East, 

Arrayed  in  rich  attire  as  for  a feast, 

The  mighty  Runjeet-Sing,  a learned  man, 
And  Rajah  of  the  realms  of  Hindostan. 
And  as  they  walked  the  guest  became 
aware 

Of  a white  figure  in  the  twilight  air, 
Gazing  intent,  as  one  who  with  surprise 
His  form  and  features  seemed  to  recog- 
nize ; 

And  in  a whisper  to  the  king  he  said  : 

“ What  is  yon  shape,  that,  pallid  as  the 
dead, 

Is  watching  me,  as  if  he  sought  to  trace 
In  the  dim  light  the  features  of  my  face  ?” 

The  king  looked,  and  replied  : “I  know 
him  well ; 

It  is  the  Angel  men  call  Azrael, 

'T  is  the  Death  Angel  ; what  hast  thou 
to  fear  ? ” 

And  the  guest  answered:  “Lest  he 
should  come  near, 

And  speak  to  me,  and  take  away  my 
breath  ! 

Save  me  from  Azrael,  save  me  from 
death  ! 

0 king,  that  hast  dominion  o’er  the  wind, 
Bid  it  arise  and  bear  me  hence  to  Ind.” 

The  king  gazed  upward  at  the  cloudless 
sky, 

Whispered  a word,  and  raised  his  hand 
on  high, 

And  lo  ! the  signet-ring  of  chrysoprase 
On  his  uplifted  finger  seemed  to  blaze 
With  hidden  fire,  and  rushing  from  the 
west 


There  came  a mighty  wind,  and  seized 
the  guest 

And  lifted  him  from  earth,  and  on  they 
passed, 

His  shining  garments  streaming  in  the 
blast, 

A silken  banner  o’er  the  walls  upreared, 

A purple  cloud,  that  gleamed  and  disap- 
peared. 

Then  said  the  Angel,  smiling  : “If  this 
man 

Be  Rajah  Runjeet-Sing  of  Hindostan, 

Thou  hast  done  well  in  listening  to  his 
prayer  ; 

I was  upon  my  way  to  seek  him  there.” 


INTERLUDE. 

“ 0 Edrehi,  forbear  to-night 
Your  ghostly  legends  of  affright, 

And  let  the  Talmud  rest  in  peace  ; 

Spare  us  your  dismal  tales  of  death 
That  almost  take  away  one’s  breath  ; 

So  doing,  may  your  tribe  increase.” 

Thus  the  Sicilian  said  ; then  went 
And  on  the  spinet’s  rattling  keys 
Played  Marianina,  like  a breeze 
From  Naples  and  the  Southern  seas, 
That  brings  us  the  delicious  scent 
Of  citron  and  of  orange  trees, 

And  memories  of  soft  days  of  ease 
At  Capri  and  Amalfi  spent. 

“Not  so,”  the  eager  Poet  said  ; 

‘ * At  least,  not  so  before  I tell 
The  story  of  my  Azrael, 

An  angel  mortal  as  ourselves, 

Which  in  an  ancient  tome  1 found 
Upon  a convent’s  dusty  shelves, 

Chained  with  an  iron  chain,  and  bound 
In  parchment,  and  with  clasps  of  brass, 
Lest  from  its  prison,  some  dark  day, 

It  might  be  stolen  or  steal  away, 

While  the  good  friars  were  singing  mass, 

“ It  is  a tale  of  Charlemagne, 

When  like  a thunder-cloud,  that  lowers 
And  sweeps  from  mountain-crest  to 
coast, 

With  lightning  flaming  through  its 
showers, 

He  swept  across  the  Lombard  plain, 
Beleaguering  with  his  warlike  train 
Pavia,  the  country’s  pride  and  boast, 
The  City  of  the  Hundred  Towers.” 


294 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


Thus  heralded  the  tale  began, 
And  thus  in  sober  measure  ran. 


THE  POET’S  TALE. 

CHARLEMAGNE. 

Olger  the  Dane  and  Desiderio, 

King  of  the  Lombards,  on  a lofty  tower 

Stood  gazing  northward  o’er  the  rolling 
plains, 

League  after  league  of  harvests,  to  the 
foot 

Of  the  snow-crested  Alps,  and  saw  ap- 
proach 

A mighty  army,  thronging  all  the 
roads 

That  led  into  the  city.  And  the 
King 

Said  unto  Olger,  who  had  passed  his 
youth 

As  hostage  at  the  court  of  France,  and 
knew 

The  Emperor’s  form  and  face  : “ Is 
Charlemagne 

Among  that  host  ? ” And  Olger  an- 
swered : “ No.” 

And  still  the  innumerable  multitude 

Flowed  onward  and  increased,  until  the 
King 

Cried  in  amazement : ‘ ‘ Surely  Charle- 
magne 

Is  coming  in  the  midst  of  all  these 
knights  ! ” 

And  Olger  answered  slowly  : “No  ; not 

. yet  5 

He  will  not  come  so  soon.”  Then  much 
disturbed 

King  Desiderio  asked  : “ What  shall  we 
do, 

If  he  approach  with  a still  greater 
army  ? ” 

And  Olger  answered  : “ When  he  shall 
appear, 

You  will  behold  what  manner  of  man 
he  is  ; 

But  what  will  then  befall  us  1 know 
not.” 

Then  came  the  guard  that  never  knew 
repose, 

The  Paladins  of  France  ; and  at  the 
sight 

The  Lombard  King  o’ercome  with  terror 
cried : 


“ This  must  be  Charlemagne  ! ” and  as 
before 

Did  Olger  answer  : “ No  ; not  yet,  not 
yet.” 

And  then  appeared  in  panoply  complete 
The  Bishops  and  the  Abbots  and  the 
Priests 

Of  the  imperial  chapel,  and  the  Counts  ; 
And  Desiderio  could  no  more  endure 
The  light  of  day,  nor  yet  encounter 
death, 

But  sobbed  aloud  and  said  : “ Let  us 
go  down 

And  hide  us  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 
Far  from  the  sight  and  anger  of  a foe 
So  terrible  as  this  ! ” And  Olger  said  : 
“ When  you  behold  the  harvests  in  the 
fields 

Shaking  with  fear,  the  Po  and  the 
Ticino 

Lashing  the  city  walls  with  iron  waves, 
Then  may  you  know  that  Charlemagne 
is  come.” 

And  even  as  he  spake,  in  the  northwest, 
Lo  ! there  uprose  a black  and  threaten- 
ing cloud, 

Out  of  whose  bosom  flashed  the  light  of 
arms 

Upon  the  people  pent  up  in  the  city  ; 

A light  more  terrible  than  any  dark- 
ness , 

And  Charlemagne  appeared  ; — a Man 
of  Iron  ! 

His  helmet  was  of  iron,  and  his  gloves 
Of  iron,  and  his  breastplate  and  his 
greaves 

And  tassets  were  of  iron,  and  his  shield. 
In  his  left  hand  he  held  an  iron  spear, 
In  his  right  hand  his  sword  invincible. 
The  horse  he  rode  on  had  the  strength 
of  iron, 

And  color  of  iron.  All  who  went  before 
him, 

Beside  him  and  behind  him,  his  whole 
host, 

Were  armed  with  iron,  and  their  hearts 
within  them 

Were  stronger  than  the  armor  that  they 
wore. 

The  fields  and  all  the  roads  were  filled 
with  iron, 

And  points  of  iron  glistened  in  the 
sun 

And  shed  a terror  through  the  city 
streets. 


EMMA  AND  EGINHARD. 


295 


This  at  a single  glance  Olger  the  Dane 
Saw  from  the  tower,  and  turning  to  the 
King 

Exclaimed  in  haste  : “ Behold  ! this  is 
the  man 

You  looked  for  with  such  eagerness  ! ” 
and  then 

Fell  as  one  dead  at  Desiderio’s  feet. 


INTERLUDE. 

Well  pleased  all  listened  to  the  tale, 
That  drew,  the  Student  said,  its  pith 
And  marrow  from  the  ancient  myth 
Of  some  one  with  an  iron  hail ; 

Or  that  portentous  Man  of  Brass 
Hephaestus  made  in  days  of  yore, 

Who  stalked  about  the  Cretan  shore, 
And  saw  the  ships  appear  and  pass, 

And  threw  stones  at  the  Argonauts, 
Being  filled  with  indiscriminate  ire 
That  tangled  and  perplexed  his  thoughts  ; 
But,  like  a hospitable  host, 

When  strangers  landed  on  the  coast, 
Heated  himself  red-hot  with  fire, 

And  hugged  them  in  his  arms,  and 
pressed 

Their  bodies  to  his  burning  breast. 

The  Poet  answered  : “ No,  not  thus 
The  legend  rose  ; it  sprang  at  first 
Out  of  the  hunger  and  the  thirst 
In  all  men  for  the  marvellous. 

And  thus  it  filled  and  satisfied 
The  imagination  of  mankind, 

And  this  ideal  to  the  mind 
Was  truer  than  historic  fact. 

Fancy  enlarged  and  multiplied 
The  terrors  of  the  awful  name 
Of  Charlemagne,  till  he  became 
Armipotent  in  every  act, 

And,  clothed  in  mystery,  appeared 
Not  what  men  saw,  but  what  they 
feared.  * 

The  Theologian  said  : “ Perchance 
Your  chronicler  in  writing  this 
Had  in  his  mind  the  Anabasis, 

Where  Xenophon  describes  the  advance 
Of  Artaxerxes  to  the  fight  ; 

At  first  the  low  gray  cloud  of  dust, 

And  then  a blackness  o’er  the  fields 
As  of  a passing  thunder-gust, 

Then  flash  of  brazen  armor  bright, 

And  ranks  of  men,  and  spears  up-thrust, 


Bowmen  and  troops  with  wicker  shields, 
And  cavalry  equipped  in  white. 

And  chariots  ranged  in  front  of  these 
With  scythes  upon  their  axle-trees.” 

To  this  the  Student  answered  : “Well, 
I also  have  a tale  to  tell 
Of  Charlemagne  ; a tale  that  throws 
A softer  light,  more  tinged  with  rose, 
Than  your  grim  apparition  cast 
Upon  the  darkness  of  the  past. 

Listen,  and  hear  in  English  rhyme 
What  the  good  Monk  of  Lauresheim 
Gives  as  the  gossip  of  his  time, 

In  mediaeval  Latin  prose.” 


THE  STUDENT’S  TALE. 

EMMA  AND  EGINHARD. 

When  Alcuin  taught  the  sons  of  Char- 
lemagne, 

In  the  free  schools  of  Aix,  how  kings 
should  reign, 

And  with  them  taught  the  children  of 
the  poor 

How  subjects  should  be  patient  and  en- 
dure, 

He  touched  the  lips  of  some,  as  best  be- 
fit, 

With  honey  from  the  hives  of  Holy 
Writ  ; 

Others  intoxicated  with  the  wine 

Of  ancient  history,  sweet  but  less  divine  ; 

Some  with  the  wholesome  fruits  of  gram- 
mar fed  ; 

Others  with  mysteries  of  the  stars  o’er- 
head, 

That  hang  suspended  in  the  vaulted 

sky 

Like  lamps  in  some  fair  palace  vast  and 
high. 

In  sooth,  it  was  a pleasant  sight  to  see 

That  Saxon  monk,  with  hood  and  ro- 
sary, 

With  inkhorn  at  his  belt,  and  pen  and 
book, 

And  mingled  love  and  reverence  in  his 
look, 

Or  hear  the  cloister  and  the  court  repeat 

The  measured  footfalls  of  his  sandaled 
feet, 

Or  watch  him  with  the  pupils  of  his 
school, 

Gentle  of  speech,  but  absolute  of  rule. 


* See  page  340. 


296 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


Among  them,  always  earliest  in  his  place, 
Was  Eginhard,  a youth  of  Frankish  race, 
Whose  face  was  bright  with  flashes  that 
forerun 

The  splendors  of  a yet  unrisen  sun. 

To  him  all  things  were  possible,  and 
seemed 

Not  what  he  had  accomplished,  but  had 
dreamed, 

And  what  were  tasks  to  others  were  his 
play, 

The  pastime  of  an  idle  holiday. 

Smaragdo,  Abbot  of  St.  Michael’s,  said, 
With  many  a shrug  and  shaking  of  the 
head, 

Surely  some  demon  must  possess  the  lad, 
Who  showed  more  wit  than  ever  school- 
boy had, 

And  learned  his  Trivium  thus  without 
the  rod  ; 

But  Alcuin  said  it  was  the  grace  of  God. 

Thus  he  grew  up,  in  Logic  point-device, 
Perfect  in  Grammar,  and  in  Rhetoric  nice ; 
Science  of  Numbers,  Geometric  art, 

And  lore  of  Stars,  and  Music  knew  by 
heart ; 

A Minnesinger,  long  before  the  times 
Of  those  who  sang  their  love  in  Suabian 
rhymes. 

The  Emperor,  when  he  heard  this  good 
report 

Of  Eginhard  much  buzzed  about  the 
court. 

Said  to  himself,  “ This  stripling  seems 
to  be 

Purposely  sent  into  the  world  for  me  ; 
He  shall  become  my  scribe,  and  shall  be 
schooled 

In  all  the  arts  whereby  the  world  is 
ruled.” 

Thus  did  the  gentle  Eginhard  attain 
To  honor  in  the  court  of  Charlemagne  ; 
Became  the  sovereign’s  favorite,  his  right 
hand, 

So  that  his  fame  was  great  in  all  the  land, 
And  all  men  loved  him  for  his  modest 
grace 

And  comeliness  of  figure  and  of  face. 

An  inmate  of  the  palace,  yet  recluse, 

A man  of  books,  yet  sacred  from  abuse 
Among  the  armed  knights  with  spur  on 
heel, 

The  tramp  of  horses  and  the  clang  of 
steel ; 


And  as  the  Emperor  promised  he  wa? 

schooled 

In  all  the  arts  by  which  the  world  is 
ruled. 

But  the  one  art  supreme,  whose  law  is 
fate, 

The  Emperor  never  dreamed  of  till  too 
late. 

Home  from  her  convent'  to  the  palace 
came 

The  lovely  Princess  Emma,  whose  sweet 
name, 

Whispered  by  seneschal  or  sung  by  bard, 
Had  often  touched  the  soul  of  Eginhard. 
He  saw  her  from  his  window,  as  in  state 
She  came,  by  knights  attended  through 
the  gate ; 

He  saw  her  at  the  banquet  of  that  day, 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  beautiful  as  May  ; 
He  saw  her  in  the  garden,  as  she  strayed 
Among  the  flowers  of  summer  with  her 
maid, 

And  said  to  him,  “0  Eginhard,  disclose 
The  meaning  and  the  mystery  of  the 
rose  ’’  ; 

And  trembling  he  made  answer  : “In 
good  sooth, 

Its  mystery  is  love,  its  meaning  youth  ! ” 

How  can  I tell  the  signals  and  the  signs 
By  which  one  heart  another  heart  di- 
vines ? 

How  can  I tell  the  many  thousand  ways 
By  which  it  keeps  the  secret  it  betrays  ? 

0 mystery  of  love  ! 0 strange  romance  ! 

Among  the  Peers  and  Paladins  of  France, 
Shining  in  steel,  and  prancing  on  gay 
steeds, 

Noble  by  birth,  yet  nobler  by  great  deeds, 
The  Princess  Emma  had  no  words  nor 
looks 

But  for  this  clerk,  this  man  of  thought 
and  books. 

The  summer  passed,  the  autumn  came  ; 
the  stalks 

Of  lilies  blackened  in  the  garden  walks  ; 
The  leaves  fell,  russet-golden  and  blood- 
red, 

Love-letters  thought  the  poet  fancy-led, 
Or  Jove  descending  in  a shower  of  gold 
Into  the  lap  of  Danae  of  old  ; 

For  poets  cherish  many  a strange  conceit, 
And  love  transmutes  all  nature  by  its 
heat. 


EMMA  AND 

No  more  the  garden  lessons,  nor  the  dark 
And  hurried  meetings  in  the  twilight 
park  ; 

But  now  the  studious  lamp,  and  the  de- 
lights 

Of  firesides  in  the  silent  winter  nights, 
And  watching  from  his  window  hour  by 
hour 

The  light  that  burned  in  Princess  Emma’s 
tower. 

At  length  one  night,  while  musing  by 
the  fire, 

O’ercome  at  last  by  his  insane  desire,  — 
For  what  will  reckless  love  not  do  and 
dare  ? — 

He  crossed  the  court,  and  climbed  the 
winding  stair, 

With  some  feigned  message  in  the  Em- 
peror’s name  ; 

But  when  he  to  the  lady’s  presence  came 
He  knelt  down  at  her  feet,  until  she 
laid 

Her  hand  upon  him,  like  a naked  blade, 
And  whispered  in  his  ear:  “Arise,  Sir 
Knight, 

To  my  heart's  level,  0 my  heart’s  de- 
light.” 

And  there  he  lingered  till  the  crowing 
cock, 

The  Alectryon  of  the  farmyard  and  the 
flock, 

Sang  his  aubade  with  lusty  voice  and 
clear, 

To  tell  the  sleeping  world  that  dawn  was 
near. 

And  then  they  parted  ; but  at  parting,  lo  ! 
They  saw  the  palace  courtyard  white 
with  snow, 

And,  placid  as  a nun,  the  moon  on  high 
Gazing  from  cloudy  cloisters  of  the  sky. 
“Alas!”  he  said,  “how  hide  the  fatal 
line 

Of  footprints  leading  from  thy  door  to 
mine, 

And  none  returning  ! ” Ah,  he  little 
knew 

What  woman’s  wit,  when  put  to  proof, 
can  do  ! 

That  night  the  Emperor,  sleepless  with 
the  cares 

And  troubles  that  attend  on  state  affairs, 
Had  risen  before  the  dawn,  and  musing 
gazed 

Into  the  silent  night,  as  one  amazed 


EGINHARD.  297 

To  see  the  calm  that  reigned  o’er  all 
supreme, 

When  his  own  reign  was  but  a troubled 
dream. 

The  moon  lit  up  the  gables  capped  with 
snow, 

And  the  white  roofs,  and  half  the  court 
below, 

And  he  beheld  a form,  that  seemed  to 
cower 

Beneath  a burden,  come  from  Emma’s 
tower,  — 

A woman,  who  upon  her  shoulders  bore 

Clerk  Eginhard  to  his  own  private  door, 

And  then  returned  in  haste,  but  still 
essayed 

To  tread  the  footprints  she  herself  had 
made  ; 

And  as  she  passed  across  the  lighted 
space, 

The  Emperor  saw  his  daughter  Emma’s 
face  ! 

He  started  not  ; he  did  not  speak  or 
moan, 

But  seemed  as  one  who  hath  been  turned 
to  stone  ; 

And  stood  there  like  a statue,  nor  awoke 

Out  of  his  trance  of  pain,  till  morning 
broke, 

Till  the  stars  faded,  and  the  moon  went 
down, 

And  o’er  the  towers  and  steeples  of  the 
town 

Came  the  gray  daylight  ; then  the  sun, 
who  took 

The  empire  of  the  world  with  sovereign 
look, 

Suffusing  with  a soft  and  golden  glow 

All  the  dead  landscape  in  its  shroud  of 
snow, 

Touching  with  flame  the  tapering  chapel 
spires, 

Windows  and  roofs,  and  smoke  of  house- 
hold fires, 

And  kindling  park  and  palace  as  he 
came  ; 

The  stork’s  nest  on  the  chimney  seemed 
in  flame. 

And  thus  he  stood  till  Eginhard  ap- 
peared, 

Demure  and  modest  with  his  comely 
beard 

And  flowing  flaxen  tresses,  come  to 
ask. 

As  was  his  wont,  the  day’s  appointed 
task. 


298 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


The  Emperor  looked  upon  him  with  a 
smile, 

And  gently  said:  “My  son,  wait  yet 
awhile  ; 

This  hour  my  council  meets  upon  some 
great 

And  very  urgent  business  of  the  state. 

Come  back  within  the  hour.  On  thy 
return 

The  work  appointed  for  thee  shal:  chou 
learn.” 

Having  dismissed  this  gallant  Trouba- 
dour, 

He  summoned  straight  his  council,  and 
secure 

And  steadfast  in  his  purpose,  from  the 
throne 

All  the  adventure  of  the  night  made 
known  ; 

Then  asked  for  sentence  ; and  with  eager 
breath 

Some  answered  banishment,  and  others 
death. 

Then  spake  the  king  : “Your  sentence 
is  not  mine  ; 

Life  is  the  gift  of  God,  and  is  divine  ; 

Nor  from  these  palace  walls  shall  one 
depart 

Who  carries  such  a secret  in  his  heart  ; 

My  better  judgment  points  another  way. 

Good  Alcuin,  I remember  how  one  day 

When  my  Pepino  asked  you,  ‘ What 
are  men  ? ’ 

You  wrote  upon  his  tablets  with  your 
pen, 

‘ Guests  of  the  grave  and  travellers  that 
pass  ! ’ 

This  being  true  of  all  men,  we,  alas  ! 

Being  all  fashioned  of  the  selfsame  dust, 

Let  us  be  merciful  as  well  as  just  ; 

This  passing  traveller,  who  hath  stolen 
away 

The  brightest  jewel  of  my  crown  to-day, 

Shall  of  himself  the  precious  gem  restore  ; 

By  giving  it,  I make  it  mine  once  more. 

Over  those  fatal  footprints  I will  throw 

My  ermine  mantle  like  another  snow.” 

Then  Eginhard  was  summoned  to  the 
hall, 

And  entered,  and  in  presence  of  them 
all, 

The  Emperor  said  : “ My  son,  for  thou 
to  me 

Hast  been  a son,  and  evermore  shalt  be, 


Long  hast  thou  served  thy  sovereign, 
and  thy  zeal 

Pleads  to  me  with  importunate  appeal, 

While  I have  been  forgetful  to  requite 

Thy  service  and  affection  as  was  right. 

But  now  the  hour  is  come,  when  I,  thy 
Lord, 

Will  crown  thy  love  with  such  supreme 
reward, 

A gift  so  precious  kings  have  striven  in 
vain 

To  win  it  from  the  hands  of  Charle- 
magne.” 

Then  sprang  the  portals  of  the  chamber 
wide, 

And  Princess  Emma  entered,  in  the 
pride 

Of  birth  and  beauty,  that  in  part  o’er- 
came 

The  conscious  terror  and  the  blush  of 
shame. 

And  the  good  Emperor  rose  up  from  his 
throne, 

And  taking  her  white  hand  within  his 
own 

Placed  it  in  Eginhard’s,  and  said  : ‘ ‘ My 
son, 

This  is  the  gift  thy  constant  zeal  hath 
won  ; 

Thus  I repay  the  royal  debt  I owe, 

And  cover  up  the  footprints  in  the  snow .” 


INTERLUDE. 

Thus  ran  the  Student’s  pleasant  rhyme 
Of  Eginhard  and  love  and  youth  ; 

Some  doubted  its  historic  truth, 

But  while  they  doubted,  ne’ertheless 
Saw  in  it  gleams  of  truthfulness, 

And  thanked  the  Monk  of  Lauresheim. 

This  they  discussed  in  various  mood  ; 
Then  in  the  silence  that  ensued 
Was  heard  a sharp  and  sudden  sound 
As  of  a bowstring  snapped  in  air  ; 

And  the  Musician  with  a bound 
Sprang  up  in  terror  from  his  chair, 

And  for  a moment  listening  stood, 

Then  strode  across  the  room,  and  found 
His  dear,  his  darling  violin 
Still  lying  safe  asleep  within 
Its  little  cradle,  like  a child 
That  gives  a sudden  cry  of  pain, 

And  wakes  to  fall  asleep  again  ; 

And  as  he  looked  at  it  and  smiled, 


ELIZABETH. 


299 


By  the  uncertain  light  beguiled, 

Despair  ! two  strings  were  broken  in 
twain. 

While  all  lamented  and  made  moan, 
With  many  a sympathetic  word 
As  if  the  loss  had  been  their  own, 
Deeming  the  tones  they  might  have 
heard 

Sweeter  than  they  had  heard  before, 
They  saw  the  Landlord  at  the  door, 

The  missing  man,  the  portly  Squire  ! 

He  had  not  entered,  but  he  stood 
With  both  arms  full  of  seasoned  wood, 
To  feed  the  much-devouring  fire, 

That  like  a lion  in  a cage 

Lashed  its  long  tail  and  roared  with  rage. 

The  missing  man  ! Ah,  yes,  they  said, 
Missing,  but  whither  had  he  fled  ? 
Where  had  he  hidden  himself  away  ? 

No  farther  than  the  barn  or  shed  ; 

He  had  not  hidden  himself,  nor  fled  ; 
How  should  he  pass  the  rainy  day 
But  in  his  barn  with  hens  and  hay, 

Or  mending  harness,  cart,  or  sled  ? 

Now,  having  come,  he  needs  must  stay 
And  tell  his  tale  as  well  as  they. 

The  Landlord  answered  only  : “ These 
Are  logs  from  the  dead  apple-trees 
Of  the  old  orchard  planted  here 
By  the  first  Howe  of  Sudbury. 

Nor  oak  nor  maple  has  so  clear 
A flame,  or  burns  so  quietly, 

Or  leaves  an  ash  so  clean  and  white  ” ; 
Thinking  by  this  to  put  aside 


The  impending  tale  that  terrified  ; 

When  suddenly,  to  his  delight, 

The  Theologian  interposed, 

Saying  that  when  the  door  was  closed, 
And  they  had  stopped  that  draft  of  cold, 
Unpleasant  night  air,  he  proposed 
To  tell  a tale  world-wide  apart 
From  that  the  Student  had  just  told  ; 
World-wide  apart,  and  yet  akin, 

As  showing  that  the  human  heart 
Beats  on  forever  as  of  old, 

As  well  beneath  the  snow-white  fold 
Of  Quaker  kerchief,  as  within 
Sendai  or  silk  or  cloth  of  gold, 

And  without  preface  would  begin. 

And  then  the  clamorous  clock  struck 
eight, 

Deliberate,  with  sonorous  chime 
Slow  measuring  out  the  march  of  time, 
Like  some  grave  Consul  of  old  Rome 
In  Jupiter’s  temple  driving  home 
The  nails  that  marked  the  year  and  date. 
Thus  interrupted  in  his  rhyme, 

The  Theologian  needs  must  wait  ; 

But  quoted  Horace,  where  he  sings 
The  dire  Necessity  of  things, 

That  drives  into  the  roofs  sublime 
Of  new-built  houses  of  the  great 
The  adamantine  nails  of  Fate. 

When  ceased  the  little  carillon 
To  herald  from  its  wooden  tower 
The  important  transit  of  the  hour, 

The  Theologian  hastened  on, 

Content  to  be  allowed  at  last 
To  sing  his  Idyl  of  the  Past. 


THE  THEOLOGIAN’S  TALE. 

ELIZABETH. 


I. 

“ Ah,  how  short  are  the  days  ! How  soon  the  nigV#t  overtakes  us  ! 

In  the  old  country  the  twilight  is  longer  ; but  here  in  the  forest 
Suddenly  comes  the  dark,  with  hardly  a pause  in  its  coming, 

Hardly  a moment  between  the  two  lights,  the  day  and  the  lamplight  ; 

Yet  how  grand  is  the  winter  ! How  spotless  the  snow  is,  and  perfect  ! ” 

Thus  spake  Elizabeth  Haddon  at  nightfall  to  Hannah  the  housemaid, 

As  in  the  farm-house  kitchen,  that  served  for  kitchen  and  parlor, 

By  the  window  she  sat  with  her  work,  and  looked  on  a landscape 
White  as  the  great  white  sheet  that  Peter  saw  in  his  vision, 

By  the  four  corners  let  down  and  descending  out  of  the  heavens. 

Covered  with  snow  were  the  forests  of  pine,  and  the  fields  and  the  meadows. 


300 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


Nothing  was  dark  hut  the  sky,  and  the  distant  Delaware  flowing 
Down  from  its  native  hills,  a peaceful  and  bountiful  river. 

Then  with  a smile  on  her  lips  made  answer  Hannah  the  housemaid  : 
“Beautiful  winter  ! yea,  the  winter  is  beautiful,  surely, 

If  one  could  only  walk  like  a fly  with  one’s  feet  on  the  ceiling. 

But  the  great  Delaware  River  is  not  like  the  Thames,  as  we  saw  it 
Out  of  our  upper  windows  in  Rotherhithe  Street  in  the  Borough, 

Crowded  with  masts  and  sails  of  vessels,  coming  and  going  ; 

Here  there  is  nothing  but  pines,  with  patches  of  snow  on  their  branches. 

There  is  snow  in  the  air,  and  see  ! it  is  falling  already  ; 

All  the  roads  will  be  blocked,  and  I pity  Joseph  to-morrow, 

Breaking  his  way  through  the  drifts,  with  his  sled  and  oxen  ; and  then,  too. 
How  in  all  the  world  shall  we  get  to  Meeting  on  First-Day  ? ” 

But  Elizabeth  checked  her,  and  answered,  mildly  reproving  : 

“Surely  the  Lord  will  provide  ; for  unto  the  snow  he  sayeth, 

Be  thou  on  the  earth,  the  good  Lord  sayeth  ; he  is  it 
Giveth  snow  like  wool,  like  ashes  scatters  the  hoar-frost.” 

So  she  folded  her  work  and  laid  it  away  in  her  basket. 

Meanwhile  Hannah  the  housemaid  had  closed  and  fastened  the  shutters, 
Spread  the  cloth,  and  lighted  the  lamp  on  the  table,  and  placed  there 
Plates  and  cups  from  the  dresser,  the  brown  rye  loaf,  and  the  butter 
Fresh  from  the  dairy,  and  then,  protecting  her  hand  with  a holder, 

Took  from  the  crane  in  the  chimney  the  steaming  and  simmering  kettle. 

Poised  it  aloft  in  the  air,  and  filled  up  the  earthen  teapot, 

Made  in  Delft,  and  adorned  with  quaint  and  wonderful  figures. 

Then  Elizabeth  said,  “Lot  Joseph  is  long  on  his  errand. 

I have  sent  him  away  with  a hamper  of  food  and  of  clothing 
For  the  poor  in  the  village.  A good  lad  and  cheerful  is  Joseph  ; 

In  the  right  place  is  his  heart,  and  his  hand  is  ready  and  willing.” 

Thus  in  praise  of  her  servant  she  spake,  and  Hannah  the  housemaid 
Laughed  with  her  eyes,  as  she  listened,  but  governed  her  tongue,  and  was  silent. 
While  her  mistress  went  on  : “Tire  house  is  far  from  the  village  ; 

We  should  be  lonely  here,  were  it  not  for  Friends  that  in  passing 
Sometimes  tarry  o’ernight,  and  make  us  glad  by  their  coming.” 

Thereupon  answered  Hannah  the  housemaid,  the  thrifty,  the  frugal  : 

“Yea,  they  come  and  they  tarry,  as  if  thy  house  were  a tavern  ; 

Open  to  ali  are  its  doors,  and  they  come  and  go  like  the  pigeons 
In  and  out  of  the  holes  of  the  pigeon-house  over  the  hayloft, 

Cooing  and  smoothing  their  feathers  and  basking  themselves  in  the  sunshine.’' 

But  in  meekness  of  spirit,  and  calmly,  Elizabeth  answered  : 

“ All  I have  is  the  Lord’s,  not  mine  to  give  or  withhold  it ; 

I but  distribute  his  gifts  to  the  poor,  and  to  those  of>his  people 
Who  in  journeyings  often  surrender  their  lives  to  his  service. 

His,  not  mine,  are  the  gifts,  and  only  so  far  can  I make  them 
Mine,  as  in  giving  I add  my  heart  to  whatever  is  given. 

Therefore  my  excellent  father  first  built  this  house  in  the  clearing  ; 

Though  he  came  not  himself,  I came  ; for  the  Lord  was  my  guidance. 

Leading  me  here  for  this  service.  We  must  not  grudge,  then,  to  others 
Ever  the  cup  of  cold  water,  or  crumbs  that  fall  from  our  table.” 


ELIZABETH. 


301 


Thus  rebuked,  for  a season  was  silent  the  penitent  housemaid  ; 

And  Elizabeth  said  in  tones  even  sweeter  and  softer  : 

“ Dost  thou  remember,  Hannah,  the  great  May-Meeting  in  London, 

When  I was  still  a child,  how  we  sat  in  the  silent  assembly, 

Waiting  upon  the  Lord  in  patient  and  passive  submission  ? 

Ho  one  spake,  till  at  length  a young  man,  a stranger,  John  Estaugh, 

Moved  by  the  Spirit,  rose,  as  if  he  were  J ohn  the  Apostle, 

Speaking  such  words  of  power  that  they  bowed  our  hearts,  as  a strong  wind 
Bends  the  grass  of  the  lields,  or  grain  that  is  ripe  for  the  sickle. 

Thoughts  of  him  to-day  have  been  oft  borne  inward  upon  me, 

Wherefore  I do  not  know  ; but  strong  is  the  feeling  within  me 
That  once  more  I shall  see  a face  I have  never  forgotten.” 


II. 

E’en  as  she  spake  they  heard  the  musical  jangle  of  sleigh-bells, 

First  far  off,  with  a dreamy  sound  and  faint  in  the  distance, 

Then  growing  nearer  and  louder,  and  turning  into  the  farmyard, 

Till  it  stopped  at  the  door,  with  sudden  creaking  of  runners. 

Then  there  were  voices  heard  as  of  two  men  talking  together, 

And  to  herself,  as  she  listened,  upbraiding  said  Hannah  the  housemaid, 

“ It  is  Joseph  come  back,  and  1 wonder  what  stranger  is  with  him.” 

Down  from  its  nail  she  took  and  lighted  the  great  tin  lantern 
Pierced  with  holes,  and  round,  and  roofed  like  the  top  of  a lighthouse. 

And  went  forth  to  receive  the  coming  guest  at  the  doorway, 

Casting  into  the  dark  a network  of  glimmer  and  shadow 
Over  the  falling  snow,  the  yellow  sleigh,  and  the  horses, 

And  the  forms  of  men,  snow-covered , looming  gigantic. 

Then  giving  Joseph  the  lantern,  she  entered  the  house  with  the  stranger. 
Youthful  he  was  and  tall,  and  his  cheeks  aglow  with  the  night  air  ; 

And  as  he  entered,  Elizabeth  rose,  and,  going  to  meet  him, 

As  if  an  unseen  power  had  announced  and  preceded  his  presence, 

And  he  had  come  as  one  whose  coming  had  long  been  expected, 

Quietly  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said,  “ Thou  art  welcome,  John  Estaugh.’* 
And  the  stranger  replied,  with  staid  and  quiet  behavior, 

“ Dost  thou  remember  me  still,  Elizabeth  ? After  so  many 
Years  have  passed,  it  seemeth  a wonderful  thing  that  I find  thee. 

Surely  the  hand  of  the  Lord  conducted  me  here  to  thy  threshold. 

For  as  I journeyed  along,  and  pondered  alone  and  in  silence 
On  his  ways,  that  are  past  finding  out,  I saw  in  the  snow-mist, 

Seemingly  weary  with  travel,  a wayfarer,  who  by  the  wayside 
Paused  and  waited.  Forthwith  I remembered  Queen  Candace’s  eunuch, 
How  on  the  way  that  goes  down  from  Jerusalem  unto  Gaza, 

Beading  Esaias  the  Prophet,  he  journeyed,  and  spake  unto  Philip, 

Praying  him  to  come  up  and  sit  in  his  chariot  with  him. 

So  I greeted  the  man,  and  he  mounted  the  sledge  beside  me, 

And  as  we  talked  on  the  way  he  told  me  of  thee  and  thy  homestead, 

How,  being  led  by  the  light  of  the  Spirit,  that  never  deceiveth, 

Full  of  zeal  for  the  work  of  the  Lord,  thou  hadst  come  to  this  country. 

And  I remembered  thy  name,  and  thy  father  and  mother  in  England, 

And  on  my  journey  have  stopped  to  see  thee,  Elizabeth  Haddon, 

Wishing  to  strengthen  thy  hand  in  the  labors  of  love  thou  art  doing.” 

And  Elizabeth  answered  with  confident  voice,  and  serenely 
Looking  into  his  face  with  her  innocent  eyes  as  she  answered, 


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TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


“ Surely  the  hand  of  the  Lord  is  in  it  ; his  Spirit  hath  led  thee 
Out  of  the  darkness  and  storm  to  the  light  and  peace  of  my  fireside.” 

Then,  with  stamping  of  feet,  the  door  was  opened,  and  Joseph 
Entered,  hearing  the  lantern,  and,  carefully  blowing  the  light  out, 

Hung  it  up  on  its  nail,  and  all  sat  down  to  their  supper ; 

For  underneath  that  roof  was  no  distinction  of  persons, 

But  one  family  only,  one  heart,  one  hearth,  and  one  household. 

When  the  supper  was  ended  they  drew  their  chairs  to  the  fireplace, 
Spacious,  open-hearted,  profuse  of  flame  and  of  firewood, 

Lord  of  forests  un felled,  and  not  a gleaner  of  fagots, 

Spreading  its  arms  to  embrace  with  inexhaustible  bounty 
All  who  fled  from  the  cold,  exultant,  laughing  at  winter  ! 

Only  Hannah  the  housemaid  was  busy  in  clearing  the  table, 

Coming  and  going,  and  bustling  about  in  closet  and  chamber. 

Then  Elizabeth  told  her  story  again  to  John  Estaugh, 

Going  far  back  to  the  past,  to  the  early  days  of  her  childhood  ; 

How  she  had  waited  and  watched,  in  all  her  doubts  and  besetments 
Comforted  with  the  extendings  and  holy,  sweet  inflowings 
Of  the  spirit  of  love,  till  the  voice  imperative  sounded, 

And  she  obeyed  the  voice,  and  cast  in  her  lot  with  her  people 
Here  in  the  desert  land,  and  God  would  provide  for  the  issue. 

Meanwhile  Joseph  sat  with  folded  hands,  and  demurely 
Listened,  or  seemed  to  listen,  and  in  the  silence  that  followed 
Nothing  was  heard  for  a while  but  the  step  of  Hannah  the  housemaid 
Walking  the  floor  overhead,  and  setting  the  chambers  in  order. 

And  Elizabeth  said,  with  a smile  of  compassion,  “ The  maiden 
Hath  a light  heart  in  her  breast,  but  her  feet  are  heavy  and  awkward.” 
Inwardly  Joseph  laughed,  but  governed  his  tongue,  and  was  silent. 

Then  came  the  hour  of  sleep,  death’s  counterfeit,  nightly  rehearsal 
Of  the  great  Silent  Assembly,  the  Meeting  of  shadows,  where  no  man 
Speaketh,  but  all  are  still,  and  the  peace  and  rest  are  unbroken  ! 

Silently  over  that  house  the  blessing  of  slumber  descended. 

But  when  the  morning  dawned,  and  the  sun  uprose  in  his  splendor, 
Breaking  his  way  through  clouds  that  encumbered  his  path  in  the  heavens, 
Joseph  was  seen  with  his  sled  and  oxen  breaking  a pathway 
Through  the  drifts  of  snow  ; the  horses  already  were  harnessed, 

And  John  Estaugh  was  standing  and  taking  leave  at  the  threshold, 

Saying  that  he  should  return  at  the  Meeting  in  May  ; while  above  them 
Hannah  the  housemaid,  the  homely,  was  looking  out  of  the  attic, 

Laughing  aloud  at  Joseph,  then  suddenly  closing  the  casement, 

As  the  bird  in  a cuckoo-clock  peeps  out  of  its  window, 

Then  disappears  again,  and  closes  the  shutter  behind  it. 


in. 

Now  was  the  winter  gone,  and  the  snow  ; and  Robin  the  Redbreast, 

Boasted  on  bush  and  tree  it  was  he,  it  was  he  and  no  other 
That  had  covered  with  leaves  the  Babes  in  the  Wood,  and  blithely 
All  the  birds  sang  with  him,  and  little  cared  for  his  boasting, 

Or  for  his  Babes  in  the  Wood,  or  the  Cruel  Uncle,  and  only 

Sang  for  the  mates  they  had  chosen,  and  cared  for  the  nests  they  were  building. 


ELIZABETH. 


303 


With  them,  but  more  sedately  and  meekly,  Elizabeth  Haddon 
Sang  in  her  inmost  heart,  but  her  lips  were  silent  and  songless. 

Thus  came  the  lovely  spring  with  a rush  of  blossoms  and  music, 

Flooding  the  earth  with  flowers,  and  the  air  with  melodies  vernal. 

Then  it  came  to  pass,  one  pleasant  morning,  that  slowly 
Up  the  road  there  came  a cavalcade,  as  of  pilgrims, 

Men  and  women,  wending  their  way  to  the  Quarterly  Meeting 
In  the  neighboring  town  ; and  with  them  came  riding  John  Estaugh. 

At  Elizabeth’s  door  they  stopped  to  rest,  and  alighting 
Tasted  the  currant  wine,  and  the  bread  of  rye,  and  the  honey 
Brought  from  the  hives,  that  stood  by  the  sunny  wall  of  the  garden  ; 

Then  remounted  their  horses,  refreshed,  and  continued  their  journey, 

And  Elizabeth  with  them,  and  Joseph,  and  Hannah  the  housemaid. 

But,  as  they  started,  Elizabeth  lingered  a little,  and  leaning 
Over  her  horse’s  neck,  in  a whisper  said  to  John  Estaugh  : 

‘ ‘ Tarry  awhile  behind,  for  I have  something  to  tell  thee, 

Hot  to  be  spoken  lightly,  nor  in  the  presence  of  others  ; 

Them  it  concerneth  not,  only  thee  and  me  it  concerneth.” 

And  they  rode  slowly  along  through  the  woods,  conversing  together. 

It  was  a pleasure  to  breathe  the  fragrant  air  of  the  forest ; 

It  was  a pleasure  to  live  on  that  bright  and  happy  May  morning  ! 

Then  Elizabeth  said,  though  still  with  a certain  reluctance, 

As  if  impelled  to  reveal  a secret  she  fain  would  have  guarded  : 

“ I will  no  longer  conceal  what  is  laid  upon  me  to  tell  thee  ; 

I have  received  from  the  Lord  a charge  to  love  thee,  John  Estaugh.” 

And  John  Estaugh  made  answer,  surprised  by  the  words  she  had  spoken, 
“ Pleasant  to  me  are  thy  converse,  thy  ways,  thy  meekness  of  spirit ; 
Pleasant  thy  frankness  of  speech,  and  thy  soul’s  immaculate  whiteness, 
Love  without  dissimulation,  a holy  and  inward  adorning. 

But  I have  yet  no  light  to  lead  me,  no  voice  to  direct  me. 

When  the  Lord’s  work  is  done,  and  the  toil  and  the  labor  completed 
He  hath  appointed  to  me,  I will  gather  into  the  stillness 
Of  my  own  heart  awhile,  and  listen  and  wait  for  his  guidance.” 

Then  Elizabeth  said,  not  troubled  nor  wounded  in  spirit, 

“So  is  it  best,  John  Estaugh.  We  will  not  speak  of  it  further. 

It  hath  been  laid  upon  me  to  tell  thee  this,  for  to-morrow 
Thou  art  going  away,  across  the  sea,  and  I know  not 
When  I shall  see  thee  more  ; but  if  the  Lord  hath  decreed  it, 

Thou  wilt  return  again  to  seek  me  here  and  to  find  me.” 

And  they  rode  onward  in  silence,  and  entered  the  town  with  the  others. 


Ships  that  pass  in  the  night,  and  speak  each  other  in  passing, 

Only  a signal  shown  and  a distant  voice  in  the  darkness  ; 

So  on  the  ocean  of  life  we  pass  and  speak  one  another, 

Only  a look  and  a voice,  then  darkness  again  and  a silence. 

How  went  on  as  of  old  the  quiet  life  of  the  homestead. 

Patient  and  unrepining  Elizabeth  labored,  in  all  things 
Mindful  not  of  herself,  but  bearing  the  burdens  of  others, 

Always  thoughtful  and  kind  and  untroubled  ; and  Hannah  the  housemaid 
Diligent  early  and  late,  and  rosy  with  washing  and  scouring, 


304 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


Still  as  of  old  disparaged  the  eminent  merits  of  Joseph, 

And  was  at  times  reproved  for  her  light  and  frothy  behavior, 

For  her  shy  looks,  and  her  careless  words,  and  her  evil  surmisings, 

Being  pressed  down  somewhat,  like  a cart  with  sheaves  overladen, 

As  she  would  sometimes  say  to  Joseph,  quoting  the  Scriptures. 

Meanwhile  John  Estaugh  departed  across  the  sea,  and  departing 
Carried  hid  in  his  heart  a secret  sacred  and  precious, 

Filling  its  chambers  with  fragrance,  and  seeming  to  him  in  its  sweetness 
Mary’s  ointment  of  spikenard,  that  filled  all  the  house  with  its  odor. 

O lost  days  of  delight,  that  are  wasted  in  doubting  and  waiting  ! 

0 lost  hours  and  days  in  which  we  might  have  been  happy  ! 

But  the  light  shone  at  last,  and  guided  his  wavering  footsteps, 

And  at  last  came  the  voice,  imperative,  questionless,-  certain. 

Then  John  Estaugh  came  back  o’er  the  sea  for  the  gift  that  was  offered, 
Better  than  houses  and  lands,  the  gift  of  a woman’s  affection. 

And  on  the  First-Day  that  followed,  he  rose  in  the  Silent  Assembly, 

Holding  in  his  strong  hand  a hand  that  trembled  a little, 

Promising  to  be  kind  and  true  and  faithful  in  all  things. 

Such  were  the  marriage-rites  of  John  and  Elizabeth  Estaugh. 

And  not  otherwise  Joseph,  the  honest,  the  diligent  servant, 

Sped  in  his  bashful  wooing  with  homely  Hannah  the  housemaid  ; 

For  when  he  asked  her  the  question,  she  answered,  “ Nay  ” ; and  then  added  : 
“ But  thee  may  make  believe,  and  see  what  will  come  of  it,  Joseph.” 


INTERLUDE. 

“ A pleasant  and  a winsome  tale,” 

The  Student  said,  “though  somewhat 
pale 

And  quiet  in  its  coloring, 

As  if  it  caught  its  tone  and  air 
From  the  gray  suits  that  Quakers  wear  ; 
Yet  worthy  of  some  German  bard, 
Hebei,  or  Voss,  or  Eberhard, 

Who  love  of  humble  themes  to  sing, 

In  humble  verse  ; but  no  more  true 
Than  was  the  tale  I told  to  you.” 

The  Theologian  made  reply, 

And  with  some  warmth,  ‘ ‘ That  I deny  ; 
’T  is  no  invention  of  my  own, 

But  something  well  and  widely  known 
To  readers  of  a riper  age, 

Writ  by  the  skilful  hand  that  wrote 
The  Indian  tale  of  Hobomok, 

And  Philothea’s  classic  page. 

I found  it  like  a waif  afloat, 

Or  dulse  uprooted  from  its  rock, 

On  the  swift  tides  that  ebb  and  flow 
In  daily  papers,  and  at  flood 
Bear  freighted  vessels  to  and  fro, 

But  later,  when  the  ebb  is  low, 

Leave  a long  waste  of  sand  and  mud.” 


“It  matters  little,”  quoth  the  Jew  ; 

“ The  cloak  of  truth  is  lined  with  lies, 
Sayeth  some  proverb  old  and  wise  ; 

And  Love  is  master  of  all  arts, 

And  puts  it  into  human  hearts 
The  strangest  things  to  say  and  do.” 

And  here  the  controversy  closed 
Abruptly,  ere  ’t  was  well  begun  ; 

For  the  Sicilian  interposed 

With,  “Lordlings,  listen,  every  one 

That  listen  may,  unto  a tale 

That  ’s  merrier  than  the  nightingale  ; 

A tale  that  cannot  boast,  forsooth, 

A single  rag  or  shred  of  truth  ; 

That  does  not  leave  the  mind  in  doubt 
As  to  the  with  it  or  without ; 

A naked  falsehood  and  absurd 
As  mortal  ever  told  or  heard. 

Therefore  I tell  it ; or,  maybe, 

Simply  because  it  pleases  me.” 

THE  SICILIAN’S  TALE. 

THE  MONK  OF  CASAL-MAGGIORE. 

Once  on  a time,  some  centuries  ago, 

In  the  hot  sunshine  two  Franciscan 
friars 


THE  MONK  OF  CASAL-MAGGIORE. 


305 


Wended  their  weary  way  with  footsteps 
slow 

Back  to  their  convent,  whose  white 
walls  and  spires 

Gleamed  on  the  hillside  like  a patch  of 
snow  ; 

Covered  with  dust  they  were,  and  torn 
by  briers, 

And  bore  like  sumpter-mules  upon  their 
backs 

The  badge  of  poverty,  their  beggar’s 
sacks. 

The  first  was  Brother  Anthony,  a spare 
And  silent  man,  with  pallid  cheeks  and 
thin, 

Much  given  to  vigils,  penance,  fasting, 
prayer, 

Solemn  and  gray,  and  worn  with  dis- 
cipline, 

As  if  his  body  but  white  ashes  were, 
Heaped  on  the  living  coals  that  glowed 
within  ; 

A simple  monk,  like  many  of  his  day, 

Whose  instinct  was  to  listen  and  obey. 

A different  man  was  Brother  Timothy, 

Of  larger  mould  and  of  a coarser  paste  ; 

A rubicund  and  stalwart  monk  was  he, 
Broad  in  the  shoulders,  broader  in  the 
waist, 

Who  often  filled  the  dull  refectory 
With  noise  by  which  the  convent  was 
disgraced, 

But  to  the  mass-book  gave  but  little 
heed, 

By  reason  he  had  never  learned  to  read. 

How,  as  they  passed  the  outskirts  of  a 
wood, 

They  saw,  with  mingled  pleasure  and 
surprise, 

Fast  tethered  to  a tree  an  ass,  that  stood 
Lazily  winking  his  large,  limpid  eyes. 

The  farmer  Gilbert  of  that  neighborhood 
His  owner  was,  who,  looking  for  sup- 
plies 

Of  fagots,  deeper  in  the  wood  had  strayed, 

Leaving  his  beast  to  ponder  in  the  shade. 

As  soon  as  Brother  Timothy  espied 
The  patient  animal,  he  said  : “ Good- 
lack  ! 

Thus  for  our  needs  doth  Providence  pro- 
vide ; 

We  ’ll  lay  our  wallets  on  the  creature’s 
back.” 


This  being  done,  he  leisurely  untied 

From  head  and  neck  the  halter  of  the 
jack, 

And  put  it  round  his  own,  and  to  the 
tree 

Stood  tethered  fast  as  if  the  ass  were  he. 

And,  bursting  forth  into  a merry  laugh, 

He  cried  to  Brother  Anthony : “Away  ! 

And  drive  the  ass  before  you  with  your 
staff  ; 

And  when  you  reach  the  convent  you 
may  say 

You  left  me  at  a farm,  half  tired  and 
half 

111  with  a fever,  for  a night  and  day, 

And  that  the  farmer  lent  this  ass  to  bear 

Our  wallets,  that  are  heavy  with  good 
fare.” 

Now  Brother  Anthony,  who  knew  the 
pranks 

Of  Brother  Timothy,  would  not  per- 
suade 

Or  reason  with  him  on  his  quirks  and 
cranks, 

But,  being  obedient,  silently  obeyed  ; 

And,  smiting  with  his  staff  the  ass’s 
flanks, 

Drove  him  before  him  over  hill  and 
glade, 

Safe  with  his  provend  to  the  convent 
gate, 

Leaving  poor  Brother  Timothy  to  his 
fate. 

Then  Gilbert,  laden  with  fagots  for  his 
fire, 

Forth  issued  from  the  wood,  and  stood 
aghast 

To  see  the  ponderous  body  of  the  friar 

Standing  where  he  had  left  his  donkey 
last. 

Trembling  he  stood,  and  dared  not  ven- 
ture nigher, 

But  stared,  and  gaped,  and  crossed 
himself  full  fast  ; 

For,  being  credulous  and  of  little  wit, 

He  thought  it  was  some  demon  from  the 
pit. 

While  speechless  and  bewildered  thus  he 
gazed, 

And  dropped  his  load  of  fagots  on  the 
ground, 

Quoth  Brother  Timothy  : “Be  not 
amazed 


20 


306  TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


That  where  you  left  a donkey  should 
be  found 

A poor  Franciscan  friar,  half-starved  and 
crazed, 

Standing  demure  and  with  a halter 
bound  ; 

But  set  me  free,  and  hear  the  piteous 
story 

Of  Brother  Timothy  of  Casal-Maggiore. 

“ 1 am  a sinful  man,  although  you  see 
I wear  the  consecrated  cowl  and  cape  ; 

You  never  owned  an  ass,  but  you  owned 
me, 

Changed  and  transformed  from  my 
own  natural  shape 

All  for  the  deadly  sin  of  gluttony, 

From  which  I could  not  otherwise 
escape, 

Than  by  this  penance,  dieting  on  grass, 

And  being  worked  and  beaten  as  an  ass. 

“ Think  of  the  ignominy  I endured  ; 
Think  of  the  miserable  life  I led, 

The  toil  and  blows  to  which  I was  inured, 
My  wretched  lodging  in  a windy  shed, 

My  scanty  fare  so  grudgingly  procured, 
The  damp  and  musty  straw  that  formed 
my  bed  ! 

But,  having  done  this  penance  for  my 
sins, 

My  life  as  man  and  monk  again  begins.” 

The  simple  Gilbert,  hearing  words  like 
these, 

Was  conscience-stricken,  and  fell  down 
apace 

Before  the  friar  upon  his  bended  knees, 
And  with  a suppliant  voice  implored 
his  grace  ; 

And  the  good  monk,  now  very  much  at 
ease, 

Granted  him  pardon  with  a smiling 
face, 

Nor  could  refuse  to  be  that  night  his 
guest, 

It  being  late,  and  he  in  need  of  rest. 

Upon  a hillside,  where  the  olive  thrives, 
With  figures  painted  on  its  white- 
washed walls, 

The  cottage  stood ; and  near  the  hum- 
ming hives 

Made  murmurs  as  of  far-off  water- 
falls ; 

A place  where  those  who  love  secluded 
lives 


Might  live  content,  and,  free  from 
noise  and  brawls, 

Like  Claudian’s  Old  Man  of  Verona  here 

Measure  by  fruits  the  slow-revolving 
year. 

And,  coming  to  this  cottage  of  content, 
They  found  his  children,  and  the 
buxom  wench 

His  wife,  Dame  Cicely,  and  his  father, 
bent 

With  years  and  labor,  seated  on  a 
bench, 

Repeating  over  some  obscure  event 
In  the  old  wars  of  Milanese  and 
French  ; 

All  welcomed  the  Franciscan,  with  a 
sense 

Of  sacred  awe  and  humble  reverence. 

When  Gilbert  told  them  what  had  come 
to  pass, 

How  beyond  question,  cavil,  or  sur- 
mise, 

Good  Brother  Timothy  had  been  their  ass, 
You  should  have  seen  the  wonder  in 
their  eyes  ; 

You  should  have  heard  them  cry, 
“ Alas  ! alas  ! ” 

Have  heard  their  lamentations  and 
their  sighs  ! 

For  all  believed  the  story,  and  began 

To  see  a saint  in  this  afflicted  man. 

Forthwith  there  was  prepared  a grand 
repast, 

To  satisfy  the  craving  of  the  friar 

After  so  rigid  and  prolonged  a fast  ; 

The  bustling  housewife  stirred  the 
kitchen  fire  ; 

Then  her  two  favorite  pullets  and  her  last 
Were  put  to  death,  at  her  express  de- 
sire, 

And  served  up  with  a salad  in  a bowl, 

And  flasks  of  country  wine  to  crown  the 
whole. 

It  would  not  be  believed  should  I repeat 
How  hungry  Brother  Timothy  ap* 
peared  ; 

It  wras  a pleasure  but  to  see  him  eat, 

His  white  teeth  flashing  through  his 
russet  beard, 

His  face  aglow  and  flushed  with  wine 
and  meat, 

His  roguish  eyes  that  rolled  and 
laughed  and  leered ! 


THE  MONK  OF  CASAL-MAGGIORE. 


Lord  ! how  he  drank  the  blood-red  coun- 
try wine 

As  if  the  village  vintage  were  divine  ! 

And  all  the  while  he  talked  without  sur- 
cease, 

And  told  his  merry  tales  with  jovial 
glee 

That  never  flagged,  but  rather  did  in- 
crease, 

And  laughed  aloud  as  if  insane  were  lie, 
And  wagged  his  red  beard,  matted  like  a 
fleece, 

And  cast  such  glances  at  Dame  Cicely 
That  Gilbert  now  grew  angry  with  his 
guest, 

And  thus  in  words  his  rising  wrath  ex- 
pressed. 

“ Good  father,”  said  he,  “easily  we  see 
How  needful  in  some  persons,  and  how 
right, 

Mortification  of  the  flesh  may  be. 

The  indulgence  you  have  given  it  to- 
night, 

After  long  penance,  clearly  proves  to  me 

Your  strength  against  temptation  is 
but  slight, 

And  shows  the  dreadful  peril  you  are  in 
Of  a relapse  into  your  deadly  sin. 

“To-morrow  morning,  with  the  rising 
sun, 

Go  back  unto  your  convent,  nor  refrain 
From  fasting  and  from  scourging,  for  you 
run 

Great  danger  to  become  an  ass  again, 
Since  monkish  flesh  and  asinine  are  one  ; 

Therefore  be  wise,  nor  longer  here  re- 
main, 

Unless  you  wish  the  scourge  should  be 
applied 

By  other  hands,  that  will  not  spare  your 
hide.” 

When  this  the  monk  had  heard,  his 
color  fled 

And  then  returned,  like  lightning  in 
the  air, 

Till  he  was  all  one  blush  from  foot  to 
head, 

And  even  the  bald  spot  in  his  russet 
hair 

Turned  from  its  usual  pallor  to  bright 
red  ! 

The  old  man  was  asleep  upon  his  chair. 
Then  all  retired,  and  sank  into  the  deep 
And  helpless  imbecility  of  sleep. 


307 

They  slept  until  the  dawn  of  day  drew 
near, 

Till  the  cock  should  have  crowed,  but 
did  not  crow, 

For  they  had  slain  the  shining  chanti- 
cleer 

And  eaten  him  for  supper,  as  you  know. 

The  monk  was  up  betimes  and  of  good 
cheer, 

And,  having  breakfasted,  made  haste 
to  go, 

As  if  he  heard  the  distant  matin  bell, 

And  had  but  little  time  to  say  farewell. 

Fresh  was  the  morning  as  the  breath  of 
kine  ; 

Odors  of  herbs  commingled  with  the 
sweet 

Balsamic  exhalations  of  the  pine  ; 

A haze  was  in  the  air  presaging  heat ; 

Uprose  the  sun  above  the  Apennine, 

And  all  the  misty  valleys  at  its  feet 

Were  full  of  the  delirious  song  of  birds, 

Yoices  of  men,  and  bells,  and  low  of 
herds. 

All  this  to  Brother  Timothy  was  naught ; 

He  did  not  care  for  scenery,  nor  here 

His  busy  fancy  found  the  thing  it 
sought ; 

But  when  he  saw  the  convent  walls 
appear, 

And  smoke  from  kitchen  chimneys  up- 
ward caught 

And  whirled  aloft  into  the  atmos- 
phere, 

He  quickened  his  slow  footsteps,  like  a 
beast 

That  scents  the  stable  a league  off  at 
least. 

And  as  he  entered  through  the  convent 
gate 

He  saw  there  in  the  court  the  ass, 
who  stood 

Twirling  his  ears  about,  and  seemed  to 
wait, 

Just  as  he  found  him  waiting  in  the 
wood  ; 

And  told  the  Prior  that,  to  alleviate 

The  daily  labors  of  the  brotherhood, 

The  owner,  being  a man  of  means  and 
thrift, 

Bestowed  him  on  the  convent  as  a gift. 

And  thereupon  the  Prior  for  many  days 

Revolved  this  serious  matter  in  his 
mind, 


308 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN.  - 


And  turned  it  over  many  different 
ways, 

Hoping  that  some  safe  issue  he  might 
find  ; 

But  stood  in  fear  of  what  the  world 
would  say, 

If  he  accepted  presents  of  this  kind, 

Employing  beasts  of  burden  for  the 
packs 

That  lazy  monks  should  carry  on  their 
backs. 

Then,  to  avoid  all  scandal  of  the  sort, 

And  stop  the  mouth  of  cavil,  he 
decreed  % 

That  he  would  cut  the  tedious  matter 
short, 

And  sell  the  ass  with  all  convenient 
speed, 

Thus  saving  the  expense  of  his  sup- 
port. 

And  hoarding  something  for  a time  of 
need. 

So  he  despatched  him  to  the  neighbor- 
ing Fair, 

And  freed  himself  from  cumber  and  from 
care. 

It  happened  now  by  chance,  as  some 
might  say, 

Others  perhaps  would  call  it  destiny, 

Gilbert  was  at  the  Fair  ; and  heard  a 
bray, 

And  nearer  came,  and  saw  that  it  was 
he, 

And  whispered  in  his  ear,  “Ah,  lacka- 
day  ! 

Good  father,  the  rebellious  flesh,  I 
see, 

Has  changed  you  back  into  an  ass 
again, 

And  all  my  admonitions  were  in  vain.” 

The  ass,  who  felt  this  breathing  in  his 
ear, 

Did  not  turn  round  to  look,  but 
shook  his  head, 

As  if  he  were  not  pleased  these  words  to 
hear, 

And  contradicted  ail  that  had  been 
said. 

And  this  made  Gilbert  cry  in  voice  more 
clear, 

“ I know  you  well ; your  hair  is 
russet-red  ; 

Do  not  deny  it ; for  you  are  the  same 

Franciscan  friar,  and  Timothy  by  name.” 


The  ass,  though  now  the  secret  had 
come  out, 

Was  obstinate,  and  shook  his  head 
again  ; 

Until  a crowd  was  gathered  round  about 

To  hear  this  dialogue  between  the 
twain  ; 

And  raised  their  voices  in  a noisy  shout 

When  Gilbert  tried  to  make  the 
matter  plain, 

And  flouted  him  and  mocked  him  all 
day  long 

With  laughter  and  with  jibes  and  scraps 
of  song. 

“ If  this  be  Brother  Timothy,”  they 
cried, 

“ Buy  him,  and  feed  him  on  the 
tenderest  grass ; 

Thou  canst  not  do  too  much  for  one  so 
tried 

As  to  be  twice  transformed  into  an 
ass.” 

So  simple  Gilbert  bought  him,  and  un- 
tied 

His  halter,  and  o’er  mountain  and 
morass 

He  led  him  homeward,  talking  as  he 
went 

Of  good  behavior  and  a mind  content. 

The  children  saw  them  coming,  and 
advanced, 

Shouting  with  joy,  and  hung  about 
his  neck,  — 

Not  Gilbert’s,  but  the  ass’s,  — round 
him  danced, 

And  wove  green  garlands  where- 
withal to  deck 

His  sacred  person  ; for  again  it  chanced 

Their  childish  feelings,  without  rein 
or  check, 

Could  not  discriminate  in  any  way 

A donkey  from  a friar  of  Orders  Gray. 

“0  Brother  Timothy,”  the  children 
said, 

“You  have  come  back  to  us  just  as 
before  ; 

We  were  afraid,  and  thought  that  you 
were  dead, 

And  we  should  never  see  you  any 
more.” 

And  then  they  kissed  the  white  star  on 
his  head, 

That  like  a birth-mark  or  a badge  he 
wore, 


SCANDERBEG. 


309 


And  patted  him  upon  the  neck  and  face, 

And  said  a thousand  things  with  child- 
ish grace. 

Thenceforward  and  forever  he  was  known 

As  Brother  Timothy,  and  led  alway 

A life  of  luxury,  till  he  had  grown 

Ungrateful,  being  stuffed  with  corn 
and  hay, 

And  very  vicious.  Then  in  angry  tone, 

Rousing  himself,  poor  Gilbert  said  one 
day, 

“When  simple  kindness  is  misunder- 
stood 

A little  flagellation  may  do  good.” 

His  many  vices  need  not  here  be  told  ; 

Among  them  was  a habit  that  he 
had 

Of  flinging  up  his  heels  at  young  and 
old, 

Breaking  his  halter,  running  off  like 
mad 

O’er  pasture-lands  and  meadow,  wood 
and  wold, 

And  other  misdemeanors  quite  as 
bad  ; 

But  worst  of  all  was  breaking  from  his 
shed 

At  night,  and  ravaging  the  cabbage-bed. 

So  Brother  Timothy  went  back  once 
more 

To  his  old  life  of  labor  and  distress  ; 

Was  beaten  worse  than  he  had  been  be- 
fore. 

And  now,  instead  of  comfort  and  ca- 
ress, 

Came  labors  manifold  and  trials  sore  ; 

And  as  his  toils  increased  his  food 
grew  less, 

Until  at  last  the  great  consoler,  Death, 

Ended  his  many  sufferings  with  his 
breath. 

Great  was  the  lamentation  when  he  died  ; 

And  mainly  that  he  died  impenitent ; 

Dame  Cicely  bewailed,  the  children  cried, 

The  old  man  still  remembered  the 
event 

In  the  French  war,  and  Gilbert  magni- 
fied 

His  many  virtues,  as  he  came  and 
went, 

And  said:  “Heaven  pardon  Brother 
Timothy, 

And  keep  us  from  the  sin  of  gluttony.” 


INTERLUDE. 

“ Signor  Luigi,”  said  the  Jew, 
When  the  Sicilian’s  tale  was  told, 

“ The  were- wolf  is  a legend  old, 

But  the  were-ass  is  something  new, 
And  yet  for  one  I think  it  true. 

The  days  of  wonder  have  not  ceased  ; 
If  there  are  beasts  in  forms  of  men, 
As  sure  it  happens  now  and  then, 
Why  may  not  man  become  a beast, 
Iri  way  of  punishment  at  least  ? 

‘ 4 But  this  I will  not  now  discuss  ; 

I leave  the  theme,  that  we  may  thus 
Remain  within  the  realm  of  song. 

The  story  that  I told  before, 

Though  not  acceptable  to  all, 

At  least  you  did  not  find  too  long. 

I beg  you,  let  me  try  again, 

With  something  in  a different  vein, 
Before  you  bid  the  curtain  fall. 
Meanwhile  keep  watch  upon  the  door, 
Nor  let  the  Landlord  leave  his  chair, 
Lest  he  should  vanish  into  air, 

And  thus  elude  our  search  once  more.” 

Thus  saying,  from  his  lips  he  blew 
A little  cloud  of  perfumed  breath, 
And  then,  as  if  it  were  a clew 
To  lead  his  footsteps  safely  through, 
Began  his  tale  as  followeth. 


THE  SPANISH  JEW’S  SECOND 
TALE. 

SCANDERBEG. 

The  battle  is  fought  and  won 
By  King  Ladislaus  the  Hun, 

In  fire  of  hell  and  death’s  frost, 

On  the  day  of  Pentecost. 

And  in  rout  before  his  path 
From  the  field  of  battle  red 
Flee  all  that  are  not  dead 
Of  the  army  of  Amurath. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night 
Iskander,  the  pride  and  boast 
Of  that  mighty  Othman  host, 

With  his  routed  Turks,  takes  flight 
From  the  battle  fought  and  lost 
On  the  day  of  Pentecost ; 

Leaving  behind  him  dead 
The  army  of  Amurath, 

The  vanguard  as  it  led. 


310 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


The  rearguard  as  it  fled, 

Mown  down  in  the  bloody  swath 
Of  the  battle’s  aftermath. 

But  he  cared  not  for  Hospodars, 

Nor  for  Baron  or  Voivode, 

As  on  through  the  night  he  rode 
And  gazed  at  the  fateful  stars, 

That  were  shining  overhead  ; 

But  smote  his  steed  with  his  staff, 
And  smiled  to  himself,  and  said  : 

“ This  is  the  time  to  laugh.” 

In  the  middle  of  the  night, 

In  a halt  of  the  hurrying  flight, 

There  came  a Scribe  of  the  King 
"Wearing  his  signet  ring, 

And  said  in  a voice  severe  : 

‘ 4 This  is  the  first  dark  blot 
On  thy  name,  George  Oastriot  ! 

Alas  ! why  art  thou  here, 

And  the  army  of  Amurath  slain,  ' 
And  left  on  the  battle  plain  ? ” 

And  Iskander  answered  and  said  : 

“ They  lie  on  the  bloody  sod 
By  the  hoofs  of  horses  trod  ; 

But  this  was  the  decree 
Of  the  watchers  overhead  ; 

For  the  war  belongeth  to  God, 

And  in  battle  who  are  we, 

Who  are  we,  that  shall  withstand 
The  wind  of  his  lifted  hand  ? ” 

Then  he  bade  them  bind  with  chains 
This  man  of  books  and  brains  ; 

And  the  Scribe  said  : 44  What  misdeed 
Have  I done,  that,  without  need, 
Thou  doest  to  me  this  thing  ? ” 

And  Iskander  answering 
Said  unto  him  : “Not  one 
Misdeed  to  me  hast  thou  done  ; 

But  for  fear  that  thou  shouldst  run 
And  hide  thyself  from  me, 

Have  I done  this  unto  thee. 

“Now  write  me  a writing,  0 Scribe, 
And  a blessing  be  on  thy  tribe  ! 

A writing  sealed  with  thy  ring, 

To  King  Amurath’s  Pasha 
In  the  city  of  Croia, 

The  city  moated  and  walled, 

That  he  surrender  the  same 
In  the  name  of  my  master,  the  King  ; 
For  what  is  writ  in  his  name 
Can  never  be  recalled.” 


And  the  Scribe  bowed  low  in  dread, 
And  unto  Iskander  said  : 

“ Allah  is  great  and  gust, 

But  we  are  as  ashes  and  dust ; 

How  shall  I do  this  thing, 

When  I know  that  my  guilty  head 
Will  be  forfeit  to  the  King  ? ” 

Then  swift  as  a shooting  star 
The  curved  and  shining  blade 
Of  Iskander’s  scimetar 
From  its  sheath,  with  jewels  bright, 
Shot,  as  he  thundered  : “ Write  ! ” 
And  the  trembling  Scribe  obeyed, 
And  wrote  in  the  fitful  glare 
Of  the  bivouac  lire  apart, 

With  the  chill  of  the  midnight  air 
On  his  forehead  white  and  bare, 
And  the  chill  of  death  in  his  heart. 

i 

Then  again  Iskander  cried  : 

“Now  follow  whither  I ride, 

For  here  thou  must  not  stay. 

Thou  shalt  be  as  my  dearest  friend, 

And  honors  without  end 

Shall  surround  thee  on  every  side, 

• And  attend  thee  night  and  day.” 
But  the  sullen  Scribe  replied  : 

4 4 Our  pathways  here  divide  ; 

Mine  leadeth  not  thy  way.” 

And  even  as  he  spoke 

Fell  a sudden  scimetar-stroke, 

When  no  one  else  was  near  ; 

And  the  Scribe  sank  to  the  ground, 
As  a stone,  pushed  from  the  brink 
Of  a black  pool,  might  sink 
With  a sob  and  disappear  ; 

And  no  one  saw  the  deed  ; 

And  in  the  stillness  around 
No  sound  was  heard  but  the  sound 
Of  the  hoofs  of  Iskander’s  steed, 

As  forward  he  sprang  with  a bound 

Then  onward  he  rode  and  afar, 

With  scarce  three  hundred  men, 
Through  river  and  forest  and  fen, 
O’er  the  mountains  of  Argentar  ; 
And  his  heart  was  merry  within. 
When  he  crossed  the  river  Drin, 
And  saw  in  the  gleam  of  the  mom 
The  White  Castle  Ak-Hissar, 

The  city  Croia  called, 

The  city  moated  and  walled, 

The  city  where  he  was  born,  — 

And  above  it  the  morning  star. 


INTERLUDE. 


311 


Then  his  trumpeters  in  the  van 
On  their  silver  bugles  blew, 

And  in  crowds  about  him  ran 
Albanian  and  Turkoman, 

That  the  sound  together  drew. 

And  he  feasted  with  his  friends, 

And  when  they  were  warm  with  wine, 
He  said  : “0  friends  of  mine. 

Behold  what  fortune  sends, 

And  what  the  fates  design  ! 

King  Amurath  commands 
That  my  father’s  wide  domain, 

This  city  and  all  its  lands, 

Shall  be  given  to  me  again.” 

Then  to  the  Castle  White 
He  rode  in  regal  state, 

And  entered  in  at  the  gate 
In  all  his  arms  bedight, 

And  gave  to  the  Pasha 
Who  ruled  in  Croia 
The  writing  of  the  King, 

Sealed  with  his  signet  ring. 

And  the  Pasha  bowed  his  head, 

And  after  a silence  said  : 

“ Allah  is  just  and  great  ! 

I yield  to  the  will  divine, 

The  city  and  lands  are  thine  ; 

Who  shall  contend  with  fate  ? ” 

Anon  from  the  castle  walls 
The  crescent  banner  falls, 

And  the  crowd  beholds  instead, 

Like  a portent  in  the  sky, 

Iskander’s  banner  fly, 

The  Black  Eagle  with  double  head  ; 

And  a shout  ascends  on  high, 

For  men’s  souls  are  tired  of  the  Turks, 
And  their  wicked  ways  and  works, 

That  have  made  of  Ak-Hissar 
A city  of  the  plague  ; 

And  the  loud,  exultant  cry 
That  echoes  wide  and  far 
Is  : “ Long  live  Scanderbeg  ! ” 

It  was  thus  Iskander  came 
Once  more  unto  his  own  ; 

And  the  tidings,  like  the  flame 
Of  a conflagration  blown 
By  the  winds  of  summer,  ran, 

Till  the  land  was  in  a blaze, 

And  the  cities  far  and  near, 

Sayeth  Ben  Joshua  Ben  Meir, 

In  his  Book  of  the  Words  of  the 
Days, 

“Were  taken  as  a man 
Would  take  the  tip  of  his  ear.” 


INTERLUDE. 

“ Now  that  is  after  my  own  heart,” 

The  Poet  cried  ; ‘ ‘ one  understands 
Your  swarthy  hero  Scanderbeg, 

Gauntlet  on  hand  and  boot  on  leg, 

And  skilled  in  every  warlike  art, 

Riding  through  his  Albanian  lands, 

And  following  the  auspicious  star 
That  shone  for  him  o’er  Ak-Hissar.” 

The  Theologian  added  here 
His  word  of  praise  not  less  sincere, 
Although  he  ended  with  a jibe  ; 

“ The  hero  of  romance  and  song 
Was  born,”  he  said,  “ to  right  the 
wrong ; 

And  I approve  ; but  all  the  same 
That  bit  of  treason  with  the  Scribe 
Adds  nothing  to  your  hero’s  fame.” 

The  Student  praised  the  good  old  times, 
And  liked  the  canter  of  the  rhymes, 
That  had  a hoofbeat  in  their  sound  ; 
But  longed  some  further  word  to  hear 
Of  the  old  chronicler  Ben  Meir, 

And  where  his  volume  might  be  found. 
The  tall  Musician  walked  the  room 
With  folded  arms  and  gleaming  eyes, 

As  if  he  saw  the  Vikings  rise, 

Gigantic  shadows  in  the  gloom  ; • 

And  much  he  talked  of  their  emprise, 
And  meteors  seen  in  Northern  skies, 
And  Heimdal’s  horn,  and  day  of  doom. 
But  the  Sicilian  laughed  again  ; 

“ This  is  the  time  to  laugh,”  he  said, 
For  the  whole  story  he  well  knew 
Was  an  invention  of  the  Jew, 

Spun  from  the  cobwebs  in  his  brain, 
And  of  the  same  bright  scarlet  thread 
As  was  the  Tale  of  Kambalu. 

Only  the  Landlord  spake  no  word  ; 

’T  was  doubtful  whether  he  had  heard 
The  tale  at  all,  so  full  of  care 
Was  he  of  his  impending  fate, 

That,  like  the  sword  of  Damocles, 

Above  his  head  hung  blank  and  bare, 
Suspended  by  a single  hair, 

So  that  he  could  not  sit  at  ease, 

But  sighed  and  looked  disconsolate, 

And  shifted  restless  in  his  chair, 
Revolving  how  he  might  evade 
The  blow  of  the  descending  blade. 

The  Student  came  to  his  relief 
By  saying  in  his  easy  way 


312 


TALES  OP  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


To  the  Musician  : “ Calm  your  grief, 
My  fair  Apollo  of  the  North, 

Balder  the  Beautiful  and  so  forth  ; 
Although  your  magic  lyre  or  lute 
With  broken  strings  is  lying  mute, 

Still  you  can  tell  some  doleful  tale 
Of  shipwreck  in  a midnight  gale, 

Or  something  of  the  kind  to  suit 
The  mood  that  we  are  in  to-night 
For  what  is  marvellous  and  strange  ; 

So  give  your  nimble  fancy  range, 

And  we  will  follow  in  its  flight.” 

But  the  Musician  shook  his  head  ; 

“No  tale  I tell  to-night,”  he  said, 
u While  my  poor  instrument  lies  there, 
Even  as  a child  with  vacant  stare 
Lies  in  its  little  coffin  dead.” 

Yet,  being  urged,  he  said  at  last  : 

“ There  comes  to  me  out  of  the  Past 
A voice,  whose  tones  are  sweet  and  wild, 
Singing  a song  almost  divine, 

And  with  a tear  in  every  line  ; 

An  ancient  ballad,  that  my  nurse 
Sang  to  me  when  I was  a child, 

In  accents  tender  as  the  verse  ; 

And  sometimes  wept,  and  sometimes 
smiled 

While  singing  it,  to  see  arise 
The  look  of  wonder  in  my  eyes, 

And  feel  my  heart  with  terror  beat. 

This  simple  ballad  I retain 
Clearly  imprinted  on  my  brain, 

And  as  a tale  will  now  repeat.” 


THE  MUSICIAN’S  TALE. 

THE  MOTHER’S  GHOST. 

Svend  Dyring  he  rideth  adown  the 
glade  ; 

I myself  was  young  ! 

There  he  hath  wooed  him  so  winsome  a 
maid  ; 

Fair  words  gladden  so  many  a heart. 

Together  were  they  for  seven  years, 

And  together  children  six  were  theirs. 

Then  came  Death  abroad  through  the 
land, 

And  blighted  the  beautiful  lily-wand. 

Svend  Dyring  he  rideth  adown  the  glade, 

And  again  hath  he  wooed  him  another 
maid. 


He  hath  wooed  him  a maid  and  brought 
home  a bride, 

But  she  was  bitter  and  full  of  pride. 

When  she  came  driving  into  the  yard, 
There  stood  the  six  children  weeping  so 
hard. 

There  stood  the  small  children  with  sor- 
rowful heart  ; 

From  before  her  feet  she  thrust  them 
apart. 

She  gave  to  them  neither  ale  nor  bread  ; 
“Ye  shall  suffer  hunger  and  hate,”  she 
said. 

She  took  from  them  their  quilts  of  blue, 
And  said  : Ye  shall  lie  on  the  straw  we 
strew.” 

She  took  from  them  the  great  waxlight  ; 
“ Now  ye  shall  lie  in  the  dark  at  night.” 

In  the  evening  late  they  cried  with  cold  ; 
The  mother  heard  it  under  the  mould. 

The  woman  heard  it  the  earth  below  : 
“To  my  little  children  I must  go.” 

She  standeth  before  the  Lord  of  all  : 

“ And  may  I go  to  my  children  small  ?” 

She  prayed  him  so  long,  and  would  not 
cease, 

Until  he  bade  her  depart  in  peace. 

“ At  cock-crow  thou  shalt  return  again  ; 
Longer  thou  shalt  not  there  remain  ! ” 

She  girded  up  her  sorrowful  bones, 

And  rifted  the  walls  and  the  marble 
stones. 

As  through  the  village  she  flitted  by, 
The  watch- dogs  howled  aloud  to  the  sky. 

When  she  came  to  the  castle  gate, 

There  stood  her  eldest  daughter  in  wait. 

“Why  standest  thou  here,  dear  daughter 
mine  ? 

How  fares  it  with  brothers  and  sisters 
thine.?  ” 

(i  Never  art  thou  mother  of  mine, 

For  my  mother  was  both  fair  and  fine. 


INTERLUDE. 


313 


“ My  mother  was  white,  with  cheeks  of 
red, 

But  thou  art  pale,  and  like  to  the  dead.” 

“ How  should  I be  fair  and  fine  ? 

I have  been  dead  ; pale  cheeks  are  mine. 

“ How  should  I he  white  and  red, 

So  long,  so  long  have  I been  dead  ? ” 

When  she  came  in  at  the  chamber  door, 
There  stood  the  small  children  weeping 
sore. 

One  she  braided,  another  she  brushed, 
The  third  she  lifted,  the  fourth  she 
hushed. 

The  fifth  she  took  on  her  lap  and  pressed, 
As  if  she  would  suckle  it  at  her  breast. 

Then  to  her  eldest  daughter  said  she, 

“ Do  thou  bid  Svend  Dyring  come  hither 
to  me.” 

Into  the  chamber  when  he  came 
She  spake  to  him  in  anger  and  shame. 

“ I left  behind  me  both  ale  and  bread  ; 
My  children  hunger  and  are  not  fed. 

“ I left  behind  me  quilts  of  blue  ; 

My  children  lie  on  the  straw  ye  strew. 

“ I left  behind  me  the  great  waxlight  ; 
My  children  lie  in  the  dark  at  night. 

“ If  I come  again  unto  your  hall, 

As  cruel  a fate  shall  you  befall  ! 

“ How  crows  the  cock  with  feathers  red  ; 
Back  to  the  earth  must  all  the  dead. 

“ How  crows  the  cock  with  feathers 
swart ; 

The  gates  of  heaven  fly  wide  apart. 

“How  crows  the  cock  with  feathers 
white  ; 

I can  abide  no  longer  to-night.” 

Whenever  they  heard  the  watch -dogs 
wail, 

They  gave  the  children  bread  and  ale. 


Whenever  they  heard  the  watch-dogs 
bay, 

They  feared  lest  the  dead  were  on  their 
way. 

Whenever  they  heard  the  watch-dogs 
bark  ; 

I myself  was  young  ! 

They  feared  the  dead  out  there  in  the 
dark. 

Fair  words  gladden  so  many  a heart. 


INTERLUDE. 

Touched  by  the  pathos  of  these  rhymes, 
The  Theologian  said  : “ All  praise 
Be  to  the  ballads  of  old  times 
And  to  the  bards  of  simple  ways, 

Who  walked  with  Nature  hand  in  hand, 
Whose  country  was  their  Holy  Land, 
Whose  singing  robes  were  homespun 
brown 

From  looms  of  their  own  native  town, 
Which  they  were  not  ashamed  to  wear, 
And  not  of  silk  or  sendal  gay, 

Nor  decked  with  fanciful  array 
Of  cockle-shells  from  Outre-Mer.” 

To  whom  the  Student  answered  : “ Yes  ; 
All  praise  and  honor  ! I confess 
That  bread  and  ale,  home-baked,  home- 
brewed, 

Are  wholesome  and  nutritious  food, 

But  not  enough  for  all  our  needs  ; 

Poets  — the  best  of  them  — are  birds 
Of  passage  ; where  their  instinct  leads 
They  range  abroad  for  thoughts  and 
words, 

And  from  all  climes  bring  home  the  seeds 
That  germinate  in  flowers  or  weeds. 
They  are  not  fowls  in  barnyards  born 
To  cackle  o’er  a grain  of  corn  ; 

And,  if  you  shut  the  horizon  down 
To  the  small  limits  of  their  town, 

What  do  you  but  degrade  your  bard 
Till  he  at  last  becomes  as  one 
Who  thinks  the  all-encircling  sun 
Rises  and  sets  in  his  back  yard  ? ” 

The  Theologian  said  again  : 

“ It  may  be  so  ; yet  I maintain 
That  what  is  native  still  is  best, 

And  little  care  I for  the  rest. 

’T  is  a long  story  ; time  would  fail 
To  tell  it,  and  the  hour  is  late  ; 

We  will  not  waste  it  in  debate, 

But  listen  to  our  Landlord’s  tale.” 


314 


TALES  OF  A 

And  thus  the  sword  of  Damocles 
Descending  not  by  slow  degrees, 

But  suddenly,  on  the  Landlord  fell, 
Who  blushing,  and  with  much  demur 
And  many  vain  apologies, 

Plucking  up  heart,  began  to  tell 
The  Rhyme  of  one  Sir  Christopher. 


THE  LANDLORD’S  TALE. 

THE  RHYME  OF  SIR  CHRISTOPHER. 

It  was  Sir  Christopher  Gardiner, 

Knight  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 

From  Merry  England  over  the  sea, 

Who  stepped  upon  this  continent 
As  if  his  august  presence  lent 
A glory  to  the  colony. 

You  should  have  seen  him  in  the  street 
Of  the  little  Boston  of  Winthrop’s  time, 
His  rapier  dangling  at  his  feet, 

Doublet  and  hose  and  boots  complete, 
Prince  Rupert  hat  with  ostrich  plume, 
Gloves  that  exhaled  a faint  perfume, 
Luxuriant  curls  and  air  sublime, 

And  superior  manners  now  obsolete  ! 

He  had  a way  of  saying  things 
That  made  one  think  of  courts  and 
kings, 

And  lords  and  ladies  of  high  degree  ; 

So  that  not  having  been  at  court 
Seemed  something  very  little  short 
Of  treason  or  lese-majesty, 

Such  an  accomplished  knight  was  he’. 

His  dwelling  was  just  beyond  the  town, 
At  what  he  called  his  country-seat ; 

For,  careless  of  Fortune's  smile  or 
frown, 

And  weary  grown  of  the  world  and  its 
ways, 

He  wished  to  pass  the  rest  of  his  days 
In  a private  life  and  a calm  retreat. 

But  a double  life  was  the  life  he  led, 
And,  while  professing  to  be  in  search 
Of  a godly  course,  and  willing,  he  said, 
Nay,  anxious  to  join  the  Puritan 
church, 

He  made  of  all  this  but  small  account, 
And  passed  his  idle  hours  instead 
With  roystering  Morton  of  Merry 
Mount, 

That  pettifogger  from  Furnival’s  Inn, 


WAYSIDE  INN. 

Lord  of  misrule  and  riot  and  sin, 

Who  looked  on  the  wine  when  it  was 
red. 

This  country-seat  was  little  more 
Than  a cabin  of  logs  ; but  in  front  of  the 
door 

A modest  flower-bed  thickly  sown 
With  sweet  alyssum  and  columbine 
Made  those  who  saw  it  at  once  divine 
The  touch  of  some  other  hand  than  his 
own. 

And  first  it  was  whispered,  and  then  it 
was  known, 

That  he  in  secret  was  harboring  there 
A little  lady  with  golden  hair, 

Whom  he  called  his  cousin,  but  whom 
he  had  wed 

In  the  Italian  manner,  as  men  said, 

And  great  was  the  scandal  everywhere. 

But  worse  than  this  was  the  vague 
surmise, 

Though  none  could  vouch  for  it  or 
aver, 

That  the  Knight  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
Was  only  a Papist  in  disguise  ; 

And  the  more  to  imbitter  their  bitter 
lives, 

And  the  more  to  trouble  the  public 
mind, 

Came  letters  from  England,  from  two 
other  wives, 

Whom  he  had  carelessly  left  behind  ; 
Both  of  them  letters  of  such  a kind 
As  made  the  governor  hold  his  breath  ; 
The  one  imploring  him  straight  to  send 
The  husband  home,  that  he  might 
amend  ; 

The  other  asking  his  instant  death, 

As  the  only  way  to  make  an  end. 

The  wary  governor  deemed  it  right, 
When  all  this  wickedness  was  revealed, 
To  send  his  warrant  signed  and  sealed, 
And  take  the  body  of  the  knight. 

Armed  with  this  mighty  instrument, 
The  marshal,  mounting  his  gallant 
steed, 

Rode  forth  from  towTn  at  the  top  of  his 
speed, 

And  followed  by  all  his  bailiffs  bold, 

As  if  on  high  achievement  bent, 

To  storm  some  castle  or  stronghold, 
Challenge  the  warders  on  the  wall, 

And  seize  in  his  ancestral  hall 
A robber-baron  grim  and  old. 


THE  RHYME  OF  ST.  CHRISTOPHER. 


315 


But  when  through  all  the  dust  and 
heat 

He  came  to  Sir  Christopher’s  country- 
seat, 

No  knight  he  found,  nor  warder  there, 
But  the  little  lady  with  golden  hair, 
Who  was  gathering  in  the  bright  sun- 
shine 

The  sweet  alyssum  and  columbine  ; 
While  gallant  Sir  Christopher,  all  so 
gay, 

Being  forewarned,  through  the  postern 
gate 

Of  his  castle  wall  had  tripped  away, 

And  was  keeping  a little  holiday 
In  the  forests,  that  bounded  his  estate. 

Then  as  a trusty  squire  and  true 
The  marshal  searched  the  castle  through, 
Not  crediting  what  the  lady  said  ; 
Searched  from  cellar  to  garret  in  vain, 
And,  finding  no  knight,  came  out  again 
And  arrested  the  golden  damsel  instead, 
And  bore  her  in  triumph  into  the  town, 
While  from  her  eyes  the  tears  rolled  down 
On  the  sweet  alyssum  and  columbine, 
That  she  held  in  her  fingers  white  and 
fine. 

The  governor’s  heart  was  moved  to  see 
So  fair  a creature  caught  within 
The  snares  of  Satan  and  of  sin, 

And  read  her  a little  homily 
On  the  folly  and  wickedness  of  the  lives 
Of  women,  half  cousins  and  half  wives  ; 
But,  seeing  that  naught  his  words 
availed, 

He  sent  her  away  in  a ship  that  sailed 
For  Merry  England  over  the  sea, 

To  the  other  two  wives  in  the  old  coun- 
tree, 

To  search  her  further,  since  he  had  failed 
To  come  at  the  heart  of  the  mystery. 

Meanwhile  Sir  Christopher  wandered 
away 

Through  pathless  woods  for  a month  and 
a day, 

Shooting  pigeons,  and  sleeping  at  night 
With  the  noble  savage,  who  took  delight 
In  his  feathered  hat  and  his  velvet  vest, 
His  gun  and  his  rapier  and  the  rest. 

But  as  soon  as  the  noble  savage  heard 
That  a bounty  was  offered  for  this  gay 
bird, 

He  wanted  to  slay  him  out  of  hand, 


And  bring  in  his  beautiful  scalp  for  a 
show, 

Like  the  glossy  head  of  a kite  or  crow, 
Until  he  was  made  to  understand 
They  wanted  the  bird  alive,  not  dead  ; 
Then  he  followed  him  whithersoever  he 
fled, 

Through  forest  and  field,  and  hunted 
him  down, 

And  brought  him  prisoner  into  the  town. 

Alas  ! it  was  a rueful  sight, 

To  see  this  melancholy  knight 
In  such  a dismal  and  hapless  case  ; 

His  hat  deformed  by  stain  and  dent, 

His  plumage  broken,  his  doublet  rent, 
His  beard  and  flowing  locks  forlorn, 
Matted,  dishevelled,  and  unshorn, 

Plis  boots  with  dust  and  mire  besprent  ; 
But  dignified  in  his  disgrace, 

And  wearing  an  unblushing  face. 

And  thus  before  the  magistrate 
He  stood  to  hear  the  doom  of  fate. 

In  vain  he  strove  with  wonted  ease 

To  modify  and  extenuate 

His  evil  deeds  in  church  and  state, 

For  gone  was  now  his  power  to  please  ; 
And  his  pompous  words  had  no  more 
weight 

Than  feathers  flying  in  the  breeze. 

With  suavity  equal  to  his  own  . 

The  governor  lent  a patient  ear 
To  the  speech  evasive  and  highflown, 

In  which  he  endeavored  to  make  clear 
That  colonial  laws  were  too  severe 
When  applied  to  a gallant  cavalier, 

A gentleman  born,  and  so  well  known, 
And  accustomed  to  move  in  a higher 
sphere. 

All  this  the  Puritan  governor  heard, 
And  deigned  in  answer  never  a word ; 
But  in  summary  manner  shipped  away, 
In  a vessel  that  sailed  from  Salem  bay, 
This  splendid  and  famous  cavalier, 

With  his  Rupert  hat  and  his  popery, 

To  Merry  England  over  the  sea, 

As  being  unmeet  to  inhabit  here. 

Thus  endeth  the  Rhyme  of  Sir  Christo- 
pher, 

Knight  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 

The  first  who  furnished  this  barren 
land 

With  apples  of  Sodom  and  ropes  of 
sand. 


316 


TALES  OF  A WAYSIDE  INN. 


FINALE. 

These  are  the  tales  those  merry  guests 
Told  to  each  other,  well  or  ill  ; 

Like  summer  birds  that  lift  their  crests 
Above  the  borders  of  their  nests 
And  twitter,  and  again  are  still. 

These  are  the  tales,  or  new  or  old, 

In  idle  moments  idly  told  ; 

Flowers  of  the  field  with  petals  thin, 
Lilies  that  neither  toil  nor  spin, 

And  tufts  of  wayside  weeds  and  gorse 
Hung  in  the  parlor  of  the  inn 
Beneath  the  sign  of  the  Red  Horse. 

And  still,  reluctant  to  retire, 

The  friends  sat  talking  by  the  fire 
And  watched  the  smouldering  embers 
burn 

To  ashes,  and  flash  up  again 
Into  a momentary  glow, 

Lingering  like  them  when  forced  to  go, 
And  going  when  they  would  remain  ; 
For  on  the  morrow  they  must  turn 
Their  faces  homeward,  and  the  pain 
Of  parting  touched  with  its  unrest 
A tender  nerve  in  every  breast. 

But  sleep  at  last  the  victory  won  ; 

They  must  be  stirring  with  the  sun, 
And  drowsily  good  night  they  said, 

And  went  still  gossiping  to  bed, 

And  left  the  parlor  wrapped  in  gloom. 
The  only  live  thing  in  the  room 
Was  the  old  clock,  that  in  its  pace 
Kept  time  with  the  revolving  spheres 
And  constellations  in  their  flight, 

And  struck  with  its  uplifted  mace 


The  dark,  unconscious  hours  of  night, 
To  senseless  and  unlistening  ears. 

Uprose  the  sun  ; and  every  guest, 
Uprisen,  was  soon  equipped  and  dressed 
For  journeying  home  and  city-ward  ; 
The  old  stage-coach  was  at  the  door, 
With  horses  harnessed,  long  before 
The  sunshine  reached  the  withered  sward 
Beneath  the  oaks,  whose  branches  hoar 
Murmured  : “ Farewell  forevermore.” 

“ Farewell ! ” the  portly  Landlord  cried  ; 
“ Farewell  ! ” the  parting  guests  replied, 
But  little  thought  that  nevermore 
Their  feet  would  pass  that  threshold 
o’er  ; 

That  nevermore  together  there 
Would  they  assemble,  free  from  care, 

To  hear  the  oaks’  mysterious  roar, 

And  breathe  the  wholesome  country  air. 

Where  are  they  now  ? What  lands  and 
skies 

Paint  pictures  in  their  friendly  eyes  ? 
What  hope  deludes,  what  promise 
cheers, 

What  pleasant  voices  fill  their  ears  ? 

Two  are  beyond  the  salt  sea  waves, 

And  three  already  in  their  graves. 
Perchance  the  living  still  may  look 
Into  the  pages  of  this  book, 

And  see  the  days  of  long  ago 
Floating  and  fleeting  to  and  fro, 

As  in  the  well-remembered  brook 
They  saw  the  inverted  landscape  gleam, 
And  their  own  faces  like  a dream 
Look  up  upon  them  from  below. 


PALINGENESIS. 


317 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 

Beautiful  lily,  dwelling  by  still  riv- 
ers, 

Or  solitary  mere, 

Or  where  the  sluggish  meadow- brook 
delivers 

Its  waters  to  the  weir  ! 

Thou  laughest  at  the  mill,  the  whir  and 
worry 

Of  spindle  and  of  loom, 

And  the  great  wheel  that  toils  amid  the 
hurry 

And  rushing  of  the  flume. 

Born  in  the  purple,  born  to  joy  and 
pleasance, 

Thou  dost  not  toil  nor  spin, 

But  makest  glad  and  radiant  with  thy 
presence 

The  meadow  and  the  lin. 

The  wind  blows,  and  uplifts  thy  droop- 
ing banner, 

And  round  thee  throng  and  run 

The  rushes,  the  green  yeomen  of  thy 
manor, 

The  outlaws  of  the  sun. 

The  burnished  dragon-fly  is  thine  at- 
tendant, 

And  tilts  against  the  field, 

And  down  the  listed  sunbeam  rides  re- 
splendent 

With  steel-blue  mail  and  shield. 

Thou  art  the  Iris,  fair  among  the  fair- 
est, 

Who,  armed  with  golden  rod 

And  winged  with  the  celestial  azure, 
bearest 

The  message  of  some  God. 

Thou  art  the  Muse,  who  far  from  crowded 
cities 

Hauntest  the  sylvan  streams, 

Playing  on  pipes  of  reed  the  artless  dit- 
ties 

That  come  to  us  as  dreams. 


0 flower-de-luce,  bloom  on,  and  let  the 
river 

Linger  to  kiss  thy  feet  ! 

0 flower  of  song,  bloom  on,  and  make 
forever 

The  world  more  fair  and  sweet. 


PALINGENESIS. 

I lay  upon  the  headland-height,  and 
listened 

To  the  incessant  sobbing  of  the  sea 
In  caverns  under  me, 

And  watched  the  waves,  that  tossed  and 
fled  and  glistened, 

Until  the  rolling  meadows  of  amethyst 
Melted  away  in  mist. 

Then  suddenly,  as  one  from  sleep,  I 
started  ; 

For  round  about  me  all  the  sunny 
capes 

Seemed  peopled  with  the  shapes 

Of  those  whom  I had  known  in  days  de- 
parted, 

Apparelled  in  the  loveliness  which 
gleams 

On  faces  seen  in  dreams. 

A moment  only,  and  the  light  and  glory 

Faded  away,  and  the  disconsolate  shore 
Stood  lonely  as  before  ; 

And  the  wild-roses  of  the  promontory 

Around  me  shuddered  in  the  wind,  and 
shed 

Their  petals  of  pale  red. 

There  was  an  old  belief  that  in  the  em 
bers 

Of  all  things  their  primordial  form  exists, 
And  cunning  alchemists 

Could  re-create  the  rose  with  all  its 
members 

From  its  own  ashes,  but  without  the 
bloom, 

Without  the  lost  perfume. 

Ah  me  ! what  wonder-working,  occult 
science 


318 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 


Can  from  the  ashes  in  our  hearts  once 
more 

The  rose  of  youth  restore  ? 

What  craft  of  alchemy  can  bid  defiance 

To  time  and  change,  and  for  a single 
hour 

Renew  this  phantom-flower  ? 

“0,  give  me  back,”  I cried,  “the  van- 
ished splendors, 

The  breath  of  morn,  and  the  exultant 
strife, 

When  the  swift  stream  of  life 

Bounds  o’er  its  rocky  channel,  and  sur- 
renders 

The  pond,  with  all  its  lilies,  for  the  leap 

Into  the  unknown  deep  ! ” 

And  the  sea  answered,  with  a lamenta- 
tion, 

Like  some  old  prophet  wailing,  and  it 
said, 

“Alas  ! thy  youth  is  dead  ! 

It  breathes  no  more,  its  heart  has  no 
pulsation  ; 

In  the  dark  places  with  the  dead  of  old 

It  lies  forever  cold  ! ” 

Then  said  I , “ From  its  consecrated 
cerements 

I will  not  drag  this  sacred  dust  again, 

Only  to  give  me  pain  ; 

But,  still  remembering  all  the  lost  en- 
dearments, 

Go  on  iny  way,  like  one  who  looks  be- 
fore, 

And  turns  to  weep  no  more.” 

Into  what  land  of  harvests,  what  planta- 
tions 

Bright  with  autumnal  foliage  and  the 
glow 

Of  sunsets  burning  low  ; 

Beneath  what  midnight  skies,  whose  con- 
stellations 

Light  up  the  spacious  avenues  between 

This  world  and  the  unseen  ! 

Amid  what  friendly  greetings  and  ca- 
resses, 

What  households,  though  not  alien,  yet 
not  mine, 

What  bowers  of  rest  divine  ; 

To  what  temptations  in  lone  wildernesses, 

What  famine  of  the  heart,  what  pain  and 
loss, 

The  bearing  of  what  cross  ! 


I do  not  know  ; nor  will  I vainly  ques- 
tion 

Those  pages  of  the  mystic  book  which 
hold 

The  story  still  untold, 

But  without  rash  conjecture  or  suggestion 
Turn  its  last  leaves  in  reverence  and 
good  heed, 

Until  “ The  End  ” I read. 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  CLOUD. 

Burn,  0 evening  hearth,  and  waken 
Pleasant  visions,  as  of  old  ! 

Though  the  house  by  winds  be  shaken, 
Safe  I keep  this  room  of  gold  ! 

Ah,  no  longer  wizard  Fancy 
Builds  her  castles  in  the  air, 

Luring  me  by  necromancy 
Up  the  never-ending  stair  ! 

But,  instead,  she  builds  me  bridges 
Over  many  a dark  ravine, 

Where  beneath  the  gusty  ridges 
Cataracts  dash  and  roar  unseen. 

And  I cross  them,  little  heeding 
Blast  of  wind  or  torrent’s  roar, 

As  I follow  the  receding 

Footsteps  that  have  gone  before. 

Naught  avails  the  imploring  gesture, 
Naught  avails  the  cry  of  pain  ! 

WThen  I touch  the  flying  vesture, 

’T  is  the  gray  robe  of  the  rain. 

Baffled  1 return,  and,  leaning 
O’er  the  parapets  of  cloud, 

Watch  the  mist  that  intervening 
Wraps  the  valley  in  its  shroud. 

And  the  sounds  of  life  ascending 
Faintly,  vaguely,  meet  the  ear, 
Murmur  of  bells  and  voices  blending 
With  the  rush  of  waters  near. 

Well  I know  what  there  lies  hidden, 
Every  tower  and  town  and  farm, 

And  again  the  land  forbidden 
Reassumes  its  vanished  charm. 

Well  I know  the  secret  places, 

And  the  nests  in  hedge  and  tree  ; 

At  what  doors  are  friendly  faces, 

In  what  hearts  are  thoughts  of  me. 


CHRISTMAS  BELLS. 


319 


Through  the  mist  and  darkness  sinking, 
Blown  by  wind  and  beaten  by  shower, 
Down  I fling  the  thought  I ’m  thinking, 
Down  I toss  this  Alpine  flower. 


HAWTHORNE. 

May  23,  1864.  / 

How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright 
day 

In  the  long  week  of  rain  ! 

Though  all  its  splendor  could  not  chase 
away 

The  omnipresent  pain. 

The  lovely  town  was  white  with  apple- 
blooms, 

And  the  great  elms  o’erhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms 
Shot  through  with  golden  thread. 

Across  the  meadows,  by  the  gray  old 
manse, 

The  historic  river  flowed  : 

I was  as  one  who  wanders  in  a trance, 
Unconscious  of  his  road. 

The  faces  of  familiar  friends  seemed 
strange  ; 

Their  voices  I could  hear, 

And  yet  the  words  they  uttered  seemed 
to  change 

Their  meaning  to  my  ear. 

For  the  one  face  I looked  for  was  not 
there, 

The  one  low  voice  was  mute  ; 

Only  an  unseen  presence  filled  the  air, 
And  baffled  my  pursuit. 

Now  I look  back,  and  meadow,  manse, 
and  stream 

Dimly  my  thought  defines  ; 

I only  see  — a dream  within  a dream  — 
The  hill- top  hearsed  with  pines. 

I only  hear  above  his  place  of  rest 
Their  tender  undertone, 

The  infinite  longings  of  a troubled  breast, 
The  voice  so  like  his  own. 

There  in  seclusion  and  remote  from  men 
The  wizard  hand  lies  cold, 


Which  at  its  topmost  speed  let  fall  the 
pen, 

And  left  the  tale  half  told. 

Ah  ! who  shall  lift  that  wand  of  magic 
power, 

And  the  lost  clew  regain  ? 

The  unfinished  window  in  Aladdin’s 
tower 

Unfinished  must  remain  ! 


CHRISTMAS  BELLS. 

I heard  the  bells  on  Chrisrtmas  Day 
Their  old,  familiar  carols  play, 

And  wild  and  sweet 
The  words  repeat 

Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

And  thought  how,  as  the  day  had  come, 
The  belfries  of  all  Christendom 
Had  rolled  along 
The  unbroken  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

Till,  ringing,  singing  on  its  way, 

The  world  revolved  from  night  to  day, 

A voice,  a chime, 

A chant  sublime 

Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

Then  from  each  black,  accursed  mouth 
The  cannon  thundered  in  the  South, 
And  with  the  sound 
The  carols  drowned 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

It  was  as  if  an  earthquake  rent 
The  hearth-stones  of  a continent, 

And  made  forlorn 
The  households  born 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

And  in  despair  I bowed  my  head  ; 
“There  is  no  peace  on  earth,”  I said  ; 
“For  hate  is  strong, 

And  mocks  the  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! ” 

Then  pealed  the  bells  more  loud  and  deep : 
“ God  is  not  dead  ; nor  doth  he  sleep  ! 
The  Wrong  shall  fail, 

The  Right  prevail, 

With  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! * 


320 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 


THE  WIND  OYER  THE  CHIM- 
NEY. - 

See,  the  fire  is  sinking  low, 

Dusky  red  the  embers  glow, 

While  above  them  still  I cower, 

While  a moment  more  I linger, 

Though  the  clock,  with  lifted  linger. 
Points  beyond  the  midnight  hour. 

Sings  the  blackened  log  a tune 
Learned  in  some  forgotten  June 
From  a school-boy  at  his  play, 

When  they  both  were  young  together, 
Heart  of  youth  and  summer  weather 
Making  all  their  holiday. 

And  the  night-wind  rising,  hark  ! 

How  above  there  in  the  dark, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow, 

Ever  wilder,  fiercer,  grander, 

Like  the  trumpets  of  Iskander, 

All  the  noisy  chimneys  blow  ! 

Every  quivering  tongue  of  flame 
Seems  to  murmur  some  great  name, 
Seems  to  say  to  me,  “ Aspire  ! ” 

But  the  night-wind  answers,  “ Hollow 
Are  the  visions  that  you  follow, 

Into  darkness  sinks  your  fire  ! ” 

Then  the  flicker  of  the  blaze 
Gleams  on  volumes  of  old  days, 

Written  by  masters  of  the  art, 

Loud  through  whose  majestic  pages 
Rolls  the  melody  of  ages, 

Throb  the  harp-strings  of  the  heart. 

And  again  the  tongues  of  flame 
Start  exulting  and  exclaim  : 

“ These  are  prophets,  bards,  andseers ; 
In  the  horoscope  of  nations, 

Like  ascendant  constellations, 

They  control  the  coming  years.” 

But  the  night-wind  cries  : “ Despair  ! 
Those  who  walk  with  feet  of  air 
Leave  no  long-enduring  marks  ; 

At  God’s  forges  incandescent 
Mighty  hammers  beat  incessant, 

These  are  but  the  flying  sparks. 

“Dust  are  all  the  hands  that  wrought  ; 
Books  are  sepulchres  of  thought  ; 

The  dead  laurels  of  the  dead 
Rustle  for  a moment  only, 

Like  the  withered  leaves  in  lonely 
Churchyards  at  some  passing  tread.” 


Suddenly  the  flame  sinks  down  ; 
Sink  the  rumors  of  renown  ; 

And  alone  the  night-wind  drear 
Clamors  louder,  wilder,  vaguer,  — 

“ ’T  is  the  brand  of  Meleager 
Dying  on  the  hearth-stone  here  ! ” 

And  I answer,  — “ Though  it  be, 
Why  should  that  discomfort  me  ? 

No  endeavor  is  in  vain  ; 

Its  reward  is  in  the  doing, 

And  the  rapture  of  pursuing 

Is  the  prize  the  vanquished  gain.” 


THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN 

HEARD  AT  NAHANT. 

0 CURFEW  of  the  setting  sun  ! 0 Bells 

of  Lynn  ! 

0 requiem  of  the  dying  day  ! 0 Bells 

of  Lynn  ! 

From  the  dark  belfries  of  yon  cloud- 
cathedral  wafted, 

Your  sounds  aerial  seem  to  float,  0 Bells 
of  Lynn  ! 

Borne  on  the  evening  wind  across  the 
crimson  twilight, 

O’er  land  and  sea  they  rise  and  fall,  0 
Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

The  fisherman  in  his  boat,  far  out  beyond 
the  headland, 

Listens,  and  leisurely  rows  ashore,  0 Bells 
of  Lynn  ! 

Over  the  shining  sands  the  wandering 
cattle  homeward 

Follow  each  other  at  your  call,  0 Bells 
of  Lynn  ! 

The  distant  lighthouse  hears,  and  with 
his  flaming  signal 

Answers  you,  passing  the  watchword  on, 
0 Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

And  down  the  darkening  coast  run  the 
tumultuous  surges, 

And  clap  their  hands,  and  shout  to  you, 
0 Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

Till  from  the  shuddering  sea,  with  your 
wild  incantations, 

Ye  summon  up  the  spectral  moon,  0 
Bells  of  Lynn  ! 


TO-MORROW. 


321 


And  startled  at  the  sight,  like  the  weird 
woman  of  Endor, 

Ye  cry  aloud,  and  then  are  still,  0 Bells 
of  Lynn  ! 


KILLED  AT  THE  FORD. 

He  is  dead,  the  beautiful  youth, 

The  heart  of  honor,  the  tongue  of  truth, 
He,  the  life  and  light  of  us  all, 

Whose  voice  was  blithe  as  a bugle-call, 
Whom  all  eyes  followed  with  one  consent, 
The  cheer  of  whose  laugh,  and  whose 
pleasant  word, 

Hushed  all  murmurs  of  discontent. 

Only  last  night,  as  we  rode  along, 

Down  the  dark  of  the  mountain  gap, 

To  visit  the  picket-guard  at  the  ford, 
Little  dreaming  of  any  mishap, 

He  was  humming  the  words  of  some  old 
song : 

“■  Two  red  roses  he  had  on  his  cap, 

And  another  he  bore  at  the  point  of  his 
sword.” 

Sudden  and  swift  a whistling  ball 
Came  out  of  a wood,  and  the  voice  was 
still  ; 

Something  I heard  in  the  darkness  fall, 
And  for  a moment  my  blood  grew  chill ; 
I spake  in  a whisper,  as  he  who  speaks 
In  a room  where  some  one  is  lying  dead  ; 
But  he  made  no  answer  to  what  I said. 

We  lifted  him  up  to  his  saddle  again, 
And  through  the  mire  and  the  mist  and 
the  rain 

Carried  him  back  to  the  silent  camp. 
And  laid  him  as  if  asleep  on  his  bed  ; 
And  I saw  by  the  light  of  the  surgeon’s 
lamp 

Two  white  roses  upon  his  cheeks, 

And  one,  just  over  his  heart,  blood-red  ! 

And  I saw  in  a vision  how  far  and  fleet 
That  fatal  bullet  went  speeding  forth, 
Till  it  reached  a town  in  the  distant 
North, 

Till  it  reached  a house  in  a sunny  street, 
Till  it  reached  a heart  that  ceased  to  beat 
Without  a murmur,  without  a cry  ; 

And  a bell  was  tolled,  in  that  far-off  town, 
For  one  who  had  passed  from  cross  to 
crown, 

And  the  neighbors  wondered  that  she 
should  die. 


GIOTTO’S  TOWER. 

How  many  lives,  made  beautiful  and 

sweet 

By  self-devotion  and  by  self-restraint, 

Whose  pleasure  is  to  run  without 
complaint 

On  unknown  errands  of  the  Paraclete, 
Wanting  the  reverence  of  unshodden 
feet, 

Fail  of  the  nimbus  which  the  artists 
paint 

Around  the  shining  forehead  of  the 
saint, 

And  are  in  their  completeness  incom- 
plete ! 

In  the  old  Tuscan  town  stands  Giotto’s 
tower, 

The  lily  of  Florence  blossoming  in 
stone,  — 

A vision,  a delight,  and  a desire,  — 
The  builder’s  perfect  and  centennial 
flower, 

That  in  the  night  of  ages  bloomed 
alone, 

But  wanting  still  the  glory  of  the  spire. 


TO-MORROW. 

’T  is  late  at  night,  and  in  the  realm  of 
sleep 

My  little  lambs  are  folded  like  the 
flocks ; 

From  room  to  room  I hear  the  wakeful 
clocks 

Challenge  the  passing  hour,  like  guards 
that  keep 

Their  solitary  watch  on  tower  and 
steep  ; 

Far  off*  I hear  the  crowing  of  the 
cocks, 

And  through  the  opening  door  that 
time  unlocks 

Feel  the  fresh  breathing  of  To-morrow 
creep. 

To-morrow  ! the  mysterious,  unknown 
guest, 

Who  cries  to  me:  “Remember  Bar- 
mecide, 

And  tremble  to  be  happy  with  the 
rest.” 

And  I make  answer  : “I  am  satisfied  ; 

I dare  not  ask  ; I know  not  what  is 
best ; 

God  hath  already  said  what  shall  be- 
tide.” 


21 


322 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 


DIYINA  COMMEDIA. 

i. 

Oft  have  I seen  at  some  cathedral  door 
A laborer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and 
heat, 

Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  rever- 
ent feet 

Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the 
floor 

Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o’er  ; 

Far  off*  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat ; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 
Become  an  undistinguishable  roar. 

So,  as  I enter  here  from  day  to  day, 

And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster 
gate, 

Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed 
to  pray, 

The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 
To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 

n. 

How  strange  the  sculptures  that  adorn 
these  towers  ! 

This  crowd  of  statues,  in  whose  folded 
sleeves 

Birds  build  their  nests  ; while  canopied 
with  leaves 

Parvis  and  portal  blofon  like  trellised 
bowers, 

And  the  vast  minster  seems  a cross  of 
flowers  ! 

But  fiends  and  dragons  on  the  gar- 
goyled  eaves 

Watch  the  dead  Christ  between  the 
living  thieves, 

And,  underneath,  the  traitor  Judas 
lowers  ! 

Ah ! from  what  agonies  of  heart  and 
brain, 

What  exultations  trampling  on  de- 
spair, 

What  tenderness,  what  tears,  what 
hate  of  wrong, 

What  passionate  outcry  of  a soul  in  pain, 
Uprose  this  poem  of  the  earth  and  air, 
This  mediaeval  miracle  of  song  ! 

nr. 

I enter,  and  I see  thee  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  long  aisles,  0 poet  saturnine  ! 
And  strive  to  make  my  steps  keep 
pace  with  thine. 


The  air  is  filled  with  some  unknown 
perfume  ; 

The  congregation  of  the  dead  make  room 

For  thee  to  pass ; the  votive  tapers 
shine  ; 

Like  rooks  that  haunt  Ravenna’s 
groves  of  pine 

The  hovering  echoes  fly  from  tomb  to 
tomb. 

From  the  confessionals  I hear  arise 

Rehearsals  of  forgotten  tragedies, 

And  lamentations  from  the  crypts  be- 
low ; 

And  then  a voice  celestial,  that  begins 

With  the  pathetic  words,  “Although 
your  sins 

As  scarlet  be,”  and  ends  with  “as  the 
snow.” 

IY. 

With  snow-white  veil  and  garments  as 
of  flame, 

She  stands  before  thee,  who  so  long 
ago 

Filled  thy  young  heart  with  passion 
and  the  woe 

From  w'hich  thy  song  and  all  its  splen- 
dors came  ; 

And  while  with  stern  rebuke  she  speaks 
thy  name, 

The  ice  about^thy  heart  melts  as  the 

* snow 

On  mountain  heights,  and  in  swift 
overflow 

Comes  gushing  from  thy  lips  in  sobs 
of  shame. 

Thou  makest  full  confession  ; and  a 
gleam, 

As  of  the  dawn  on  some  dark  forest 
cast, 

, Seems  on  thy  lifted  forehead  to  in- 
crease ; 

Lethe  and  Eunoe  — the  remembered 
dream 

And  the  forgotten  sorrow  — bring  at 
last 

That  perfect  pardon  which  is  perfect 
peace. 

v. 

I lift  mine  eyes,  and  all  the  windows 
blaze 

With  forms  of  saints  and  holy  men 
wrho  died, 

Here  martyred  and  hereafter  glorified  ; 


NOEL. 


323 


And  the  great  Rose  upon  its  leaves 
displays 

Christ’s  Triumph,  and  the  angelic  roun- 
delays, 

With  splendor  upon  splendor  multi- 
plied ; 

And  Beatrice  again  at  Dante’s  side 
No  more  rebukes,  but  smiles  her 
words  of  praise. 

And  then  the  organ  sounds,  and  unseen 
choirs 

Sing  the  old  Latin  hymns  of  peace 
and  love, 

And  benedictions  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 

And  the  melodious  bells  among  the  spires 
O’er  all  the  house-tops  and  through 
heaven  above 

Proclaim  the  elevation  of  the  Host  ! 

VI. 

0 star  of  morning  and  of  liberty  ! 

0 bringer  of  the  light,  whose  splendor 
shines 

Above  the  darkness  of  the  Apennines, 
Forerunner  of  the  day  that  is  to  be  ! 

The  voices  of  the  city  and  the  sea, 

The  voices  of  tha^mountains  and  the 
pines,  * 

Repeat  thy  song,  till  the  familiar  lines 
Are  footpaths  for  the  thought  of  Italy  ! 

Thy  fame  is  blown  abroad  from  all  the 
heights, 

Through  all  the  nations,  and  a sound 
is  heard, 

As  of  a mighty  wind,  and  men  devout, 

Strangers  of  Rome,  and  the  new  prose- 
lytes, 

In  their  own  language  hear  thy  won- 
drous word, 

And  many  are  amazed  and  many 
doubt. 

NOEL. 

ENVOYS  k M.  AGASSIZ,  LA  VEILLE  DE 
NOEL  1864,  AVEC  UN  PANIER  DE 
VINS  DIVERS. 

I*’Academie  cn  respect, 

Nonobstant  P incorrection 

A la  faveur  da  sujet, 

Ture-lure, 

N’y  fera  point  de  rature  ; 

Noel ! ture-lure-lure. 

Gm  Barozai. 

Quand  les  astres  de  Noel 
« Brillaieiit,  palpitaient  au  ciel, 


Six  gaillards,  et  chacun  ivre, 
Chantaient  gaiment  dans  le  givre, 

“ Bons  amis 

Allons  done  chez  Agassiz  ! ” 

Ces  illustres  Pelerins 
D’Outre-Mer  adroits  et  fins, 

Se  donnant  des  airs  de  pretre, 

A l’envi  se  vantaient  d’etre 
“ Bons  amis 

De  Jean  Rudolphe  Agassiz  ! ” 

(Eil-de-Perdrix,  grand  farceur, 

Sans  reproche  et  sans  pudeur, 

Dans  son  patois  de  Bourgogne, 
Bredouillait  comme  un  ivrogne, 

‘ ‘ Bons  amis, 

J’ai  danse  chez  Agassiz  ! ” 

Verzenay  le  Champenois, 

Bon  Fran9ais,  point  New-Yorquois, 
Mais  des' environs  d’Avize, 
Fredonne  a mainte  reprise, 

“ Bons  amis, 

J’ai  chante  chez  Agassiz  ! ” 

A cote  marchait  un  vieux 
Hidalgo,  mais  non  mousseux  ; 

Dans  le  temps  de  Charlemagne 
Fut  son  pere  Grand  d’Espagne  ! 

“ Bons  amis 

J’ai  dine  chez  Agassiz  ! ” 

Derriere  eux  un  Bordelais, 

Gascon,  s’il  en  fut  jamais, 

Parfume  de  poesie 

Riait,  chantait,  plein  de  vie, 

‘^Bons  amis, 

J’ai  soupe  chez  Agassiz  ! ” 

Avec  ce  beau  cadet  roux, 

Bras  dessus  et  bras  dessous,  . 

Mine  altiere  et  couleur  terne, 

Yint  le  Sire  de  Sauterne  ; 

“ Bons  amis, 

J’ai  couche  chez  Agassiz  ! ” 

Mais  le  dernier  de  ces  preux, 

Etait  un  pauvre  Chartreux, 

Qui  disait,  d’un  ton  robuste, 

“ Benedictions  sur  le  Juste  ! 

Bons  amis 

Benissons  P&re  Agassiz  ! ” 


324 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 


Ils  arrivent  trois  a trois, 

Mon  tent  l’escalier  de  bois 
Clopin-clopant  ! quel  gendarme 
Peut  permettre  ce  vacarme, 

Bons  amis, 

A la  porte  d’ Agassiz  ! 

‘ ‘ Ouvrez  done,  mon  bon  Seigneur, 
Ouvrez  vite  et  n’ayez  peur  ; 
Ouvrez,  ouvrez,  car  nous  sommes 


Gens  de  bien  et  gentilshommes, 
Bons  amis 

De  la  famille  Agassiz  ! ” 

Cbut,  ganaches  ! taisez-vous  ! 
C’en  est  trop  de  vos  glouglous  ; 
Epargnez  aux  Philosophes 
Yos  abominables  strophes  ! 
Bons  amis, 

Respectez  mon  Agassiz  ! 


JUDAS  MAG  CAB  JU  S. 


ACT  I. 

The  Citadel  of  Antiochus  at  Jerusalem. 

Scene  I.  — Antiochus  ; Jason. 

Antiochus.  0 Antioch,  my  Antioch, 
my  city  ! 

Queen  of  the  East ! my  solace,  my 
delight ! 

The  dowry  of  my  sister  Cleopatra 

When  she  was  wed  to  Ptolemy,  and 
now 

Won  back  and  made  more  wonderful  by 
me  ! 

I love  thee,  and  I long  to  be  once  more 

Among  the  players  and  the  dancing 
women 

Within  thy  gates,  and  bathe  in  the 
Orontes, 

Thy  river  and  mine.  0 Jason,  my 
High-Priest, 

For  I have  made  thee  so,  and  thou  art 
mine, 

Hast  thou  seen  Antioch  the  Beautiful  ? 

Jason.  Never,  my  Lord. 

Ant.  Then  hast  thou  never  seen 

The  wonder  of  the  world.  This  city  of 
David 

Compared  with  Antioch  is  but  a vil- 
lage, 

And  its  inhabitants  compared  with 
Greeks 

Are  mannerless  boors. 

Jason.  They  are  barbarians, 

And  mannerless. 

Ant.  They  must  be  civilized. 

They  must  be  made  to  have  more  gods 
than  one  ; 

And  goddesses  besides. 


Jason.  They  shall  have  more. 

Ant.  They  must  have  hippodromes, 
and  games,  and  baths, 

Stage-plays  and  festivals,  and  most  of  all 

The  Dionysia. 

Jason.  They  shall  have  them  all. 

Ant.  By  Heracles  ! but  I should  like 
to  see 

These  Hebrews  crowned  with  ivy,  and 
arrayed 

In  skins  of  fawns,  with  drums  and 
flutes  and  thyrsi, 

Revel  and  riot  through  the  solemn 
streets 

Of  their  old  town.  Ha,  ha  ! It  makes 
me  merry 

Only  to  think  of  it  ! — Thou  dost  not 
laugh. 

Jason.  Yea,  I laugh  inwardly. 

Ant.  The  new  Greek  leaven 

Works  slowly  in  this  Israelitish  dough  ! 

Have  I not  sacked  the  Temple,  and  on 
the  altar 

Set  up  the  statue  of  Otympian  Zeus 

To  Hellenize  it  ? 

Jason.  Thou  hast  done  all  this. 

Ant.  As  thou  wast  Joshua  once  and 
now  art  Jason, 

And  from  a Hebrew  hast  become  a 
Greek, 

So  shall  this  Hebrew  nation  be  trans- 
lated, 

Their  very  natures  and  their  names  be 
changed, 

And  all  be  Hellenized. 

Jason.  It  shall  be  done. 

Ant.  Their  manners  and  their  laws 
and  way  of  living 

Shall  all  be  Greek.  They  shall  unlearn 
their  language, 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 


325 


And  learn  tlie  lovely  speech  of  Antioch. 
Where  hast  thou  been  to-day  ? Thou 
coraest  late. 

Jason.  Playing  at  discus  with  the 
other  priests 
In  the  Gymnasium. 

Ant.  Thou  hast  done  well. 

There ’s  nothing  better  for  you  lazy 
priests 

Than  discus-playing  with  the  common 
people. 

Now  tell  me,  Jason,  what  these  Hebrews 
call  me 

When  they  converse  together  at  their 
games. 

Jason.  Antiochus  Epiphanes,  my 
Lord  ; 

Antiochus  the  Illustrious. 

Ant.  0,  not  that ; 

That  is  the  public  cry ; I mean  the 
name 

They  give  me  when  they  talk  among 
themselves, 

And  think  that  no  one  listens  ; what  is 
that  ? 

Jason.  Antiochus  Epimanes,  my  Lord  ! 

Ant.  Antiochus  the  Mad  ! Ay,  that 
is  it. 

And  who  hath  said  it  ? Who  hath  set 
in  motion 
That  sorry  jest  ? 

Jason.  The  Seven  Sons  insane 

Of  a weird  woman,  like  themselves  in- 
sane. 

Ant.  I like  their  courage,  but  it  shall 
not  save  them. 

They  shall  be  made  to  eat  the  flesh  of 
swine, 

Or  they  shall  die.  Where  are  they  ? 

Jason.  In  the  dungeons 

Beneath  this  tower. 

Ant.  There  let  them  stay  and  starve, 
Till  I am  ready  to  make  Greeks  of  them, 
After  my  fashion. 

Jason.  They  shall  stay  and  starve.  — 
My  Lord,  the  Ambassadors  of  Samaria 
Await  thy  pleasure. 

Ant.  Why  not  my  displeasure  ? 

Ambassadors  are  tedious.  They  are 
men 

Who  work  for  their  own  ends,  and  not 
for  mine  ; 

There  is  no  furtherance  in  them.  Let 
them  go 

To  Apollonius,  my  governor 
There  in  Samaria,  and  not  trouble  me. 
What  do  they  want  ? 


Jason.  Only  the  royal  sanction 

To  give  a name  unto  a nameless  temple 
Upon  Mount  Gerizim. 

Ant.  Then  bid  them  enter. 

This  pleases  me,  and  furthers  my  designs. 
The  occasion  is  auspicious.  Bid  them 
enter. 


Scene  II.  — Antiochus;  Jason;  the  Sa- 
maritan Ambassadors. 

Ant.  Approach.  Come  forward ; stand 
not  at  the  door 

Wagging  your  long  beards,  but  demean 
yourselves 

As  doth  become  Ambassadors.  What 
seek  ye  ? 

An  Ambassador . An  audience  from 
the  King. 

Ant.  Speak,  and  be  brief. 

Waste  not  the  time  in  useless  rhetoric. 

Words  are  not  things. 

Ambassador  {reading).  4 4 To  King 
Antiochus, 

The  God,  Epiphanes  ; a Memorial 

From  the  Sidonians,  who  live  at  Sichem.” 

Ant.  Sidonians  ? 

Ambassador.  Ay,  my  Lord. 

Ant.  Go  on,  go  on  ! 

And  do  not  tire  thyself  and  me  with 
bowing  ! 

Ambassador  {reading) . 4 4 We  are  a col- 
ony of  Medes  and  Persians.” 

Ant.  No,  ye  are  Jews  from  one  of  the 
Ten  Tribes  ; 

Whether  Sidonians  or  Samaritans 

Or  Jews  of  Jewry,  matters  not  to  me  ; 

Ye  are  all  Israelites,  ye  are  all  Jews. 

When  the  Jews  prosper,  ye  claim  kindred 
with  them  ; 

When  the  Jews  suffer,  ye  are  Medes  and 
Persians  : 

I know  that  in  the  days  of  Alexander 

Ye  claimed  exemption  from  the  annual 
tribute 

In  the  Sabbatic  Year,  because,  ye  said, 

Your  fields  had  not  been  planted  in  that 
year. 

A mbassador  {reading) . 4 4 0 u r f ath  ers, 
upon  certain  frequent  plagues, 

And  following  an  ancient  superstition, 

Were  long  accustomed  to  observe  that 
day 

Which  by  the  Israelites  is  called  the 
Sabbath, 

And  in  a temple  on  Mount  Gerizim 


326 


JUDAS  MACCABiEUS. 


Without  a name,  they  offered  sacrifice. 
Now  we,  who  are  Sidonians,  beseech 
thee, 

Who  art  our  benefactor  and  our  savior, 
Not  to  confound  us  with  these  wicked 
Jews, 

But  to  give  royal  order  and  injunction 
To  Apollonius  in  Samaria. 

Thy  governor,  and  likewise  to  Nicanor, 
Thy  procurator,  no  more  to  molest  us  ; 
And  let  our  nameless  temple  now  be 
named 

The  Temple  of  Jupiter  Hellenius.” 

Ant.  This  shall  be  done.  Full  well 
it  pleaseth  me 

Ye  are  not  Jews,  or  are  no  longer  Jews, 
But  Greeks  ; if  not  by  birth,  yet  Greeks 
by  custom. 

Your  nameless  temple  shall  receive  the 
name 

Of  Jupiter  Hellenius.  Ye  may  go  ! 

Scene  III.  — Antiochus  ; Jason. 

Ant.  My  task  is  easier  than  I dreamed. 
These  people 

Meet  me  half-way.  Jason,  didst  thou 
take  note 

How  these  Samaritans  of  Sichem  said 
They  were  not  Jews  ? that  they  were 
Medes  and  Persians, 

They  were  Sidonians,  anything  but  Jews  ? 
’T  is  of  good  augury.  The  rest  will  fol- 
low 

Till  the  whole  land  is  Hellenized. 

Jason.  My  Lord, 

These  are  Samaritans.  The  tribe  of 
Judah 

Is  of  a different  temper,  and  the  task 
Will  be  more  difficult. 

Ant.  Host  thou  gainsay  me  ? 

Jason.  I know  the  stubborn  nature 
of  the  Jew. 

Yesterday,  Eleazer,  an  old  man, 

Being  fourscore  years  and  ten,  chose 
rather  death 

By  torture  than  to  eat  the  flesh  of  swine. 

Ant.  The  life  is  in  the  blood,  and  the 
whole  nation 

Shall  bleed  to  death,  or  it  shall  change 
its  faith  ! 

Jason.  Hundreds  have  fled  already  to 
the  mountains 

Of  Ephraim,  where  Judas  Maccabseus 
Hath  raised  the  standard  of  revolt  against 
thee. 


Ant.  I will  burn  down  their  city,  and 
will  make  it 

W aste  as  a wilderness.  Its  thoroughfares 
Shall  be  but  furrows  in  a field  of  ashes, 
it  shall  be  sown  with  salt  as  Sodom  is  ! 
This  hundred  and  fifty-third  Olympiad 
Shall  have  a broad  and  blood-red  seal 
upon  it, 

Stamped  with  the  awful  letters  of  my 
name, 

Antiochus  the  God,  Epiphanes  ! — 
Where  are  those  Seven  Sons  ? 

Jason.  My  Lord,  they  wait 

Thy  royal  pleasure. 

Ant.  They  shall  wait  no  longer  ! 


ACT  II. 

The  Dungeons  in  the  Citadel. 

Scene  I.  — The  Mother  of  the  Seven  Sons 
alone , listening. 

The  Mother.  Be  strong,  my  heart ! 
Break  not  till  they  are  dead, 

All,  all  my  Seven  Sons ; then  burst 
asunder, 

And  let  this  tortured  and  tormented  soul 
Leap  and  rush  out  like  water  through  the 
shards 

Of  earthen  vessels  broken  at  a well. 

0 my  dear  children,  mine  in  life  and 

death, 

1 know  not  how  ye  came  into  my  womb  ; 
I neither  gave  3rou  breath,  nor  gave  you 

life, 

And  neither  was  it  I that  formed  the 
members 

Of  every  one  of  you.  But  the  Creator, 
Who  made  the  world,  and  made  the 
heavens  above  us, 

Who  formed  the  generation  of. man- 
kind, 

And  found  out  the  beginning  of  all 
things, 

He  gave  you  breath  and  life,  and  will 
again 

Of  his  own  mercy,  as  ye  now  regard 
Not  your  own  selves,  but  his  eternal 
law. 

I do  not  murmur,  nay,  I thank  thee, 
God, 

That  I and  mine  have  not  been  deemed 
unworthy 

To  suffer  for  thy  sake,  and  for  thy  law, 
And  for  the  many  sins  of  Israel. 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS.  327 


Hark  ! I can  hear  within  the  sound  of 
scourges  ! 

I feel  them  more  than  ye  do,  0 my 
sons  ! 

But  cannot  come  to  you.  I,  who  was 
wont 

To  wake  at  night  at  the  least  cry  ye 
made, 

To  whom  ye  ran  at  every  slightest 
hurt,  — 

I cannot  take  you  now  into  my  lap 
And  soothe  your  pain,  hut  God  will  take 
you  all 

Into  his  pitying  arms,  and  comfort  you, 
And  give  you  rest. 

A Voice  (within).  What  wouldst  thou 
ask  of  us  ? 

Ready  are  we  to  die,  hut  we  will  never 
Transgress  the  law  and  customs  of  our 
fathers. 

The  Mother.  It  is  the  voice  of  my 
first-born  ! 0 brave 

And  noble  boy ! Thou  hast  the 
privilege 

Of  dying  first,  as  thou  wast  born  the 
first. 

The  same  Voice  (within).  God  looketh 
on  us,  and  hath  comfort  in  us  ; 

As  Moses  in  his  song  of  old  declared, 

He  in  his  servants  shall  be  comforted. 

The  Mother.  I knew  thou  wouldst  not 
fail  ! — He  speaks  no  more, 

He  is  beyond  all  pain  ! 

Ant.  (within).  If  thou  eat  not 

Thou  shaft  be  tortured  throughout  all 
the  members 

Of  thy  whole  body.  Wilt  thou  eat 
then  ? 

Second  Voice  (within).  Ho. 

The  Mother.  It  is  Adaiah’s  voice.  I 
tremble  for  him. 

I know  his  nature,  devious  as  the 
wind, 

And  swift  to  change,  gentle  and 
yielding  always. 

Be  steadfast,  0 my  son  \ 

The  same  Voice  (within).  Thou,  like 
a fury, 

Takest  us  from  this  present  life,  but 
God, 

Who  rules  the  world,  shall  raise  us  up 
again 

Into  life  everlasting. 

The  Mother.  God,  I thank  thee 

That  thou  hast  breathed  into  that  timid 
heart 

Courage  to  die  for  thee.  0 my  Adaiah, 


Witness  of  God ! if  thou  for  whom  I 
feared 

Canst  thus  encounter  death,  I need  not 
fear ; 

The  others  will  not  shrink. 

Third  Voice  (within).  Behold  these 
hands 

Held  out  to  thee,  0 King  Antiochus, 
Hot  to  implore  thy  mercy,  but  to  show 
That  I despise  them.  He  who  gave 
them  to  me 

Will  give  them  back  again. 

The  Mother.  0 Avilan, 

It  is  thy  voice.  For  the  last  time  I 
hear  it  ; 

For  the  last  time  on  earth,  but  not  the 
last. 

To  death  it  bids  defiance  and  to  torture. 
It  sounds  to  me  as  from  another  world, 
And  makes  the  petty  miseries  of  this 
Seem  unto  me  as  naught,  and  less  than 
naught. 

Farewell,  my  Avilan  ; nay,  I should  say 
Welcome,  my  Avilan  ; for  I am  dead 
Before  thee.  I am  waiting  for  the 
others. 

Why  do  they  linger  ? 

Fourth  Voice  (within).  It  is  good,  0 
King, 

Being  put  to  death  by  men,  to  look  for 
hope 

From  God,  to  be  raised  up  again  by  him. 
But  thou  — no  resurrection  shalt  thou 
have 

To  life  hereafter. 

The  Mother.  Four  ! already  four  ! 
Three  are  still  living  ; nay,  they  all  are 
living, 

Half  here,  half  there.  Make  haste, 
Antiochus, 

To  reunite  us ; for  the  sword  that 
cleaves 

These  miserable  bodies  makes  a door 
Through  which  our  souls,  impatient  of 
release, 

Rush  to  each  other’s  arms. 

Fifth  Voice  (within).  Thou  hast  the 
power  ; 

Thou  doest  what  thou  wilt.  Abide 
awhile, 

And  thou  shalt  see  the  power  of  God, 
and  how 

He  will  torment  thee  and  thy  seed. 

The  Mother.  0 hasten  ; 

Why  dost  thou  pause  ? Thou  who  hast 
slain  already 

So  many  Hebrew  women,  and  hast  hung 


328 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 


Their  murdered  infants  round  their 
necks,  slay  me, 

For  I too  am  a woman,  and  these  boys 
Are  mine.  Make  haste  to  slay  us  all, 
And  hang  my  lifeless  babes  about  my 
neck. 

Sixth  Voice  [within).  Think  not, 
Antiochus,  that  takest  in  hand 
To  strive  against  the  God  of  Israel, 

Thou  shalt  escape  unpunished,  for  his 
wrath 

Shall  overtake  thee  and  thy  bloody  house. 

The  Mother.  One  more,  my  Sirion,  and 
then  all  is  ended. 

Having  put  all  to  bed,  then  in  my  turn 
I will  lie  down  and  sleep  as  sound  as  they. 
My  Sirion,  my  youngest,  best  beloved  ! 
And  those  bright  golden  locks,  that  I so 
oft 

Have  curled  about  these  fingers,  even  now 
Are  foul  with  blood  and  dust,  like  a 
lamb’s  fleece, 

Slain  in  the  shambles.  — Not  a sound  I 
hear. 

This  silence  is  more  terrible  to  me 
Than  any  sound,  than  any  cry  of  pain, 
That  might  escape  the  lips  of  one  who 
dies. 

Doth  his  heart  fail  him  ? Doth  he  fall 
away 

In  the  last  hour  from  God  ? 0 Sirion, 

Sirion, 

Art  thou  afraid  ? I do  not  hear  thy 
voice. 

Die  as  thy  brothers  died.  Thou  must 
not  live  ! 


Scene  II.  — The  Mother  ; Antiochus  ; 
Sirion. 

The  Mother.  Are  they  all  dead  ? 

Ant.  Of  all  thy  Seven  Sons 

One  only  lives.  Behold  them  where  they 
lie  ; 

How  dost  thou  like  this  picture  ? 

The  Mother.  God  in  heaven  ! 

Can  a man  do  such  deeds,  and  yet  not  die 
By  the  recoil  of  his  own  wickedness  ? 

Ye  murdered,  bleeding,  mutilated  bodies 
That  were  my  children  once,  and  still 
are  mine, 

I cannot  watch  o’er  you  as  Bispah  watched 
In  sackcloth  o’er  the  seven  sons  of  Saul, 
Till  water  drop  upon  you  out  of  heaven 
And  wash  this  blood  away  ! I cannot 
mourn 


As  she,  the  daughter  of  Aiah,  mourned 
the  dead, 

From  the  beginning  of  the  barley-harvest 
Until  the  autumn  rains,  and  suffered  not 
The  birds  of  air  to  rest  on  them  by  day, 
Nor  the  wild  beasts  by  night.  For  ye 
have  died 

A better  death,  a death  so  full  of  life 
That  I ought  rather  to  rejoice  than 
mourn.  — 

Wherefore  art  thou  not  dead,  0 Sirion  ? 
Wherefore  art  thou  the  only  living  thing 
Among  thy  brothers  dead  ? Art  thou 
afraid  ? 

Ant.  0 woman,  I have  spared  him  for 
thy  sake, 

For  he  is  fair  to  look  upon  and  comely  ; 
And  I have  sworn  to  him  by  all  the 
gods 

That  1 would  crown  his  life  with  joy  and 
honor, 

Heap  treasures  on  him,  luxuries,  de- 
lights, 

Make  him  my  friend  and  keeper  of  my 
secrets, 

If  he  would  turn  from  your  Mosaic  Law 
And  be  as  we  are  ; but  he  will  not  listen. 

The  Mother.  My  noble  Sirion  ! 

Ant.  Therefore  I beseech  thee, 

Who  art  his  mother,  thou  wouldst  speak 
with  him, 

And  wouldst  persuade  him.  I am  sick 
of  blood. 

The  Mother.  Yea,  I will  speak  with 
him  and  will  persuade  him. 

0 Sirion,  my  son  ! have  pity  on  me, 

On  me  that  bare  thee,  and  that  gave  thee 
suck, 

And  fed  and  nourished  thee,  and  brought 
thee  up 

With  the  dear  trouble  of  a mother’s  care 
Unto  this  age.  Look  on  the  heavens 
above  thee, 

And  on  the  earth  and  all  that  is  therein  ; 
Consider  that  God  made  them  out  of 
things 

That  wrere  not  ; and  that  likewise  in  this 
manner 

Mankind  was  made.  Then  fear  not  this 
tormentor  ; 

But,  being  worthy  of  thy  brethren,  take 
Thy  death  as  they  did, 'that  I may  re- 
ceive thee 

Again  in  mercy  with  them. 

Ant.  I am  mocked, 

Yea,  I am  laughed  to  scorn. 

SiHon.  Whom  wait  ye  for  ? 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 


329 


Never  will  I o"bey  the  King’s  command- 
ment, 

But  the  commandment  of  the  ancient 
Law, 

That  was  by  Moses  given  unto  our  fa- 
thers. 

And  thou,  0 godless  man,  that  of  all 
others 

Art  the  most  wicked,  be  not  lifted 
up, 

Nor  puffed  up  with  uncertain  hopes,  up- 
lifting 

Thy  hand  against  the  servants  of  the 
Lord, 

For  thou  hast  not  escaped  the  righteous 
judgment 

Of  the  Almighty  God,  who  seeth  all 
things  ! 

Ant . He  is  no  God  of  mine  ; I fear 
him  not. 

Sirion . My  brothers,  who  have  suf- 
fered a brief  pain, 

Are  dead  ; but  thou,  Antiochus,  shalt 
suffer 

The  punishment  of  pride.  I offer  up 

My  body  and  my  life,  beseeching  God 

That  he  would  speedily  be  merciful 

Unto  our  nation,  and  that  thou  by 
plagues 

Mysterious  and  by  torments  mayest  con- 
fess 

That  he  alone  is  God. 

Ant.  Ye  both  shall  perish 

By  torments  worse  than  any  that  your 
God, 

Here  or  hereafter,  hath  in  store  for  me. 

The  Mother.  My  Sirion,  I am  proud 
of  thee ! 

Ant.  Be  silent ! 

Go  to  thy  bed  of  torture  in  yon  cham- 
ber, 

Where  lie  so  many  sleepers,  heartless 
mother  ! 

Thy  footsteps  will  not  wake  them,  nor 
thy  voice, 

Nor  wilt  thou  hear,  amid  thy  troubled 
dreams, 

Thy  children  crying  for  thee  in  the  night ! 

The  Mother.  0 Death,  that  stretchest 
thy  white  hands  to  me, 

I fear  them  not,  but  press  them  to  my 
lips, 

That  are  as  white  as  thine  ; for  I am 
Death, 

Nay,  am  the  Mother  of  Death,  seeing 
these  sons 

All  lying  lifeless.  — Kiss  me,  Sirion. 


ACT  III. 

The  Battle-field  of  Beth-horon. 

Scene  I.  — Judas  Maccabeus  in  armor 
before  his  tent. 

Judas.  The  trumpets  sound ; the 
echoes  of  the  mountains 
Answer  them,  as  the  Sabbath  morning 
breaks 

Over  Beth-horon  and  its  battle-field, 
Where  the  great  captain  of  the  hosts  of 
God, 

A slave  brought  up  in  the  brick-fields  of 
Egypt, 

O’ercame  the  Amorites.  There  was  no 
day 

Like  that,  before  or  after  it,  nor  shall  be. 
The  sun  stood  still  ; the  hammers  of  the 
hail 

Beat  on  their  harness  ; and  the  captains 
set 

Their  weary  feet  upon  the  necks  of  kings, 
As  I will  upon  thine,  Antiochus, 

Thou  man  of  blood  ! — Behold  the  rising 
sun 

Strikes  on  the  golden  letters  of  my  banner, 
Be  Eloliim  Yehovah  ! Who  is  like 
To  thee,  0 Lord,  among  the  gods  ? 
— Alas  ! 

I am  not  Joshua,  I cannot  say, 

“Sun,  stand  thou  still  on  Gibeon,  and 
thou  Moon, 

In  Ajalon  ! ” Nor  am  I one  who  wastes 
The  fateful  time  in  useless  lamentation  ; 
But  one  who  bears  his  life  upon  his  hand 
To  lose  it  or  to  save  it,  as  may  best 
Serve  the  designs  of  Him  who  giveth 
life. 


Scene  II.  — Judas  Maccabeus  ; Jewish 
Fugitives. 

Judas.  Who  and  what  are  ye,  that 
with  furtive  steps 
Steal  in  among  our  tents  ? 

Fugitives.  0 Maccabseus, 

Outcasts  are  we,  and  fugitives  as  thou  art, 
Jews  of  Jerusalem,  that  have  escaped 
From  the  polluted  city,  and  from  death. 
Judas.  None  can  escape  from  death. 
Say  that  ye  come 

To  die  for  Israel,  and  ye  are  welcome. 
What  tidings  bring  ye  ? 

Fugitives.  Tidings  of  despair. 


330 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 


The  Temple  is  laid  waste  ; the  precious 
vessels, 

Censers  of  gold,  vials  and  veils  and 
crowns, 

And  golden  ornaments,  and  hidden  treas- 
ures, 

Have  all  been  taken  from  it,  and  the  ! 
Gentiles 

With  revelling  and  with  riot  fill  its 
courts, 

And  dally  with  harlots  in  the  holy  places. 

Judas.  All  this  I knew  before. 

Fugitives.  Upon  the  altar 

Are  things  profane,  things  by  the  law 
forbidden  ; 

Nor  can  we  keep  our  Sabbaths  or  our 
Feasts, 

But  on  the  festivals  of  Dionysus 
Must  walk  in  their  processions,  bearing 
ivy 

To  crown  a drunken  god. 

Judas.  This  too  I know. 

But  tell  me  of  the  Jews.  How  fare  the 
Jews  ? 

Fugitives.  The  coming  of  this  mis- 
chief hath  been  sore 

And  grievous  to  the  people.  All  the 
land 

Is  full  of  lamentation  and  of  mourning. 
The  Princes  and  the  Elders  w^eep  and 
wail  ; 

The  young  men  and  the  maidens  are 
made  feeble  ; 

The  beauty  of  the  women  hath  been 
changed. 

Judas.  And  are  there  none  to  die  for 
Israel  ? 

*T  is  not  enough  to  mourn.  Breastplate 
and  harness 

Are  better  things  than  sackcloth.  Let 
the  women 

Lament  for  Israel ; the  men  should  die. 

Fugitives.  Both  men  and  women  die  ; 
old  men  and  young  : 

Old  Eleazer  died  : and  Mahala 
With  all  her  Seven  Sons. 

Judas.  Antioch  us, 

At  every  step  thou  takest  there  is  left 
A bloody  footprint  in  the  street,  by 
which 

The  avenging  wrath  of  God  will  track 
thee  out  ! 

It  is  enough.  Go  to  the  sutler’s  tents  : 
Those  of  you  who  are  men,  put  on  such 
armor 

As  ye  may  find  ; those  of  you  who  are 
women, 


Buckle  that  armor  on  ; and  for  a watch- 
word 

Whisper,  or  cry  aloud,  “The  Help  of 
God.” 


Scene  III.  — Judas  Maccabeus  ; Nica- 
nor. 

Nicanor.  Hail,  Judas  Maccabseus  ! 

Judas.  Hail ! — Who  art  thou 

That  comest  here  in  this  mysterious 
guise 

Into  our  camp  unheralded  ? 

Nic.  A herald 

Sent  from  Nicanor. 

Judas.  Heralds  come  not  thus. 

Armed  with  thy  shirt  of  mail  from  head 
to  heel, 

Thou  glidest  like  a serpent  silently 
Into  my  presence.  Wherefore  dost  thou 
turn 

Thy  face  from  me  ? A herald  speaks 
his  errand 

With  forehead  unabashed.  Thou  art  a spy 
Sent  by  Nicanor. 

Nic.  No  disguise  avails  ! 

Behold  my  face  ; I am  Nicanor’s  self. 

Judas.  Thou  art  indeed  Nicanor.  1 
salute  thee. 

What  brings  thee  hither  to  this  hostile 
camp 

Thus  unattended  ? 

Nic.  Confidence  in  thee. 

Thou  hast  the  nobler  virtues  of  thy  race, 
Without  the  failings  that  attend  those 
virtues. 

Thou  canst  be  strong,  and  yet  not  tyran- 
nous, 

Canst  righteous  be  and  not  intolerant. 
Let  there  be  peace  between  us. 

Judas.  What  is  peace  ? 

Is  it  to  bow  in  silence  to  our  victors  ? 

Is  it  to  see  our  cities  sacked  and  pillaged, 
Our  people  slain,  or  sold  as  slaves,  or 
fleeing 

At  night-time  by  the  blaze  of  burning 
towns  ; 

Jerusalem  laid  waste  ; the  Holy  Temple 
Polluted  with  strange  gods  ? Are  these 
things  peace  ? 

Nic.  These  are  the  dire  necessities 
that  wait 

On  war,  whose  loud  and  bloody  enginery 
I seek  to  stay.  Let  there  be  peace  be- 
tween 

Antiochus  and  thee. 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS.  331 


Judas.  Antiochus  ? 

What  is  Antiochus,  that  he  should  prate 
Of  peace  to  me,  who  am  a fugitive  ? 
To-day  he  shall  be  lifted  up  ; to-morrow 
Shall  not  be  found,  because  he  is  re- 
turned 

Unto  his  dust ; his  thought  has  come  to 
nothing. 

There  is  no  peace  between  us,  nor  can 
be, 

Until  this  banner  floats  upon  the  walls 
Of  our  Jerusalem. 

Nic.  Between  that  city 

And  thee  there  lies  a waving  w~all  of 
tents, 

Held  by  a host  of  forty  thousand  foot, 
And  horsemen  seven  thousand.  What 
hast  thou 

To  bring  against  all  these  ? 

Judas.  The  power  of  God, 

Whose  breath  shall  scatter  your  white 
tents  abroad, 

As  flakes  of  snow. 

Nic.  Your  Mighty  One  in  heaven 
Will  not  do  battle  on  the  Seventh  Day ; 
It  is  his  day  of  rest. 

Judas.  Silence,  blasphemer. 

Go  to  thy  tents. 

Nic.  Shall  it  be  war  or  peace  ? 

Judas.  War,  war,  and  only  war.  Go 
to  thy  tents 

That  shall  be  scattered,  as  by  you  were 
scattered 

The  torn  and  trampled  pages  of  the  Law, 
Blown  through  the  windy  streets. 

Nic.  Farewell,  brave  foe  ! 

Judas.  Ho,  there,  my  captains  ! Have 
safe-conduct  given 

Unto  Nicanor’s  herald  through  the  camp, 
And  come  yourselves  to  me.  — Farewell, 
Nicanor  ! 


Scene  IV.  — J udas  Maccabeus  ; Cap- 
tains and  Soldiers. 

Judas.  The  hour  is  come.  Gather 
the  host  together 

For  battle.  Lo,  with  trumpets  and  with 
songs 

The  army  of  Nicanor  comes  against  us. 

Go  forth  to  meet  them,  praying  in  your 
hearts, 

And  fighting  with  your  hands. 

Captains.  Look  forth  and  see  ! 

The  morning  sun  is  shining  on  their 
shields 


Of  gold  and  brass  ; the  mountains  glis- 
ten with  them, 

And  shine  like  lamps.  And  we  who  are 
so  few 

And  poorly  armed,  and  ready  to  faint 
with  fasting, 

How  shall  we  fight  against  this  multi- 
tude ? 

Judas.  The  victory  of  a battle  stand- 
eth  not 

In  multitudes,  but  in  the  strength  that 
cometh 

From  heaven  above.  The  Lord  forbid 
that  I 

Should  do  this  thing,  and  flee  away  from 
them. 

Nay,  if  our  hour  be  come,  then  let  us 
die  ; 

Let  us  not  stain  our  honor. 

Captains.  ’T  is  the  Sabbath. 

Wilt  thou  fight  on  the  Sabbath,  Macca- 
beus ? 

Judas.  Ay  ; when  I fight  the  battles 
of  the  Lord, 

I fight  them  on  his  day,  as  on  all  others. 

Have  ye  forgotten  certain  fugitives 

That  fled  once  to  these  hills,  and  hid 
themselves 

In  caves  ? How  their  pursuers  camped 
against  them 

Upon  the  Seventh  Day,  and  challenged 
them  ? , 

And  how  they  answered  not,  nor  cast  a 
stone, 

Nor  stopped  the  places  where  they  lay 
concealed, 

But  meekly  perished  with  their  wives 
and  children, 

Even  to  the  number  of  a thousand  souls  ? 

We  who  are  fighting  for  our  laws  and 
lives 

Will  not  so  perish. 

Captains.  Lead  us  to  the  battle  ! 

Judas.  And  let  our  watchword  be, 
“The  Help  of  God  ! ” 

Last  night  I dreamed  a dream  ; and  in 
my  vision 

Beheld  Onias,  our  High-Priest  of  old, 

Who  holding  up  his  hands  prayed  for 
the  Jews. 

This  done,  in  the  like  manner  there  ap- 
peared 

An  old  man,  and  exceeding  glorious, 

With  hoary  hair,  and  of  a wonderful 

And  excellent  majesty.  And  Onias  said : 

“This  is  a lover  of  the  Jews,  who  pray- 
eth 


332  JUDAS  MACCABiEUS. 


Much  for  the  people  and  the  Holy- 
City,  — 

God’s  prophet  Jeremias.”  And  the 
prophet 

Held  forth  his  right  hand  and  gave 
unto  me 

A sword  of  gold  ; and  giving  it  he  said  : 
“ Take  thou  this  holy  sword,  a gift  from 
God, 

And  with  it  thou  shalt  wound  thine 
adversaries.” 

Captains . The  Lord  is  with  us  ! 

Judas.  Hark  ! I hear  the  trumpets 
Sound  from  Beth-horon  ; from  the  bat- 
tle-held 

Of  Joshua,  where  he  smote  the  Amorites, 
Smote  the  Five  Kings  of  Eglon  and  of 
Jarmuth, 

Of  Hebron,  Lachish,  and  Jerusalem, 

As  we  to-day  will  smite  Nicanor’s  hosts 
And  leave  a memory  of  great  deeds  be- 
hind us. 

Captains  and  Soldiers.  The  Help  of 
God  ! 

Judas.  Be  Elohim  Yehovali ! 

Lord,  thou  didst  send  thine  Angel  in  the 
time 

Of  Esekias,  King  of  Israel, 

And  in  the  armies  of  Sennacherib 
Didst  slay  a hundred  fourscore  and  live 
thousand. 

Wherefore,  O Lord  of  heaven,  now  also 
send 

Before  us  a good  angel  for  a fear, 

And  through  the  might  of  thy  right  arm 
let  those 

Be  stricken  with  terror  that  have  come 
this  day 

Against  thy  holy  people  to  blaspheme  ! 


ACT  IV. 

The  outer  Courts  of  the  Temple  at  Jeru- 
salem. 

Scene  I.  — Judas  Maccabeus  ; Cap- 
tains ; Jews. 

Judas.  Behold,  our  enemies  are  dis- 
comfited. 

Jerusalem  is  fallen  ; and  our  banners 
Float  from  her  battlements,  and  o’er  her 
gates 

Hicanor’s  severed  head,  a sign  of  terror, 
Blackens  in  wind  and  sun. 

Captains.  O Maccabseus, 


The  citadel  of  Antiochus,  wherein 
The  Mother  with  her  Seven  Sons  was 
murdered, 

Is  still  defiant. 

Judas.  Wait. 

Captains.  Its  hateful  aspect 

Insults  us  with  the  bitter  memories 
Of  other  days. 

Judas.  Wait ; it  shall  disappear 

And  vanish  as  a cloud.  First  let  us 
cleanse 

The  Sanctuary.  See,  it  is  become 
Waste  like  a wilderness.  Its  golden 
gates 

Wrenched  from  their  hinges  and  con- 
sumed by  fire  ; 

Shrubs  growing  in  its  courts  as  in  a for- 
est ; 

Upon  its  altars  hideous  and  strange 
idols  ; 

And  strewn  about  its  pavement  at  my 
feet 

Its  Sacred  Books,  half  burned  and  paint- 
ed o’er 

With  images  of  heathen  gods. 

Jews.  Woe  ! woe  ! 

Our  beauty  and  our  glory  are  laid  waste  ! 
The  Gentiles  have  profaned  our  holy 
places  ! 

( Lamentation  and  alarm  of  trumpets. ) 

Judas.  This  sound  of  trumpets,  and 
this  lamentation, 

The  heart-cry  of  a people  toward  the 
heavens, 

Stir  me  to  wrath  and  vengeance.  Go, 
my  captains  ; 

I hold  you  back  no  longer.  Batter 
down 

The  citadel  of  Antiochus,  -while  here 
We  sweep  away  his  altars  and  his  gods. 


Scene  II. —Judas  Maccabeus;  Jason; 
Jews. 

Jews.  Lurking  among  the  ruins  of  the 
Temple, 

Deep  in  its  inner  courts,  we  found  this 
man, 

Clad  as  High-Priest. 

Judas.  I ask  not  who  thou  art. 

I know  thy  face,  writ  over  with  deceit 
As  are  these  tattered  volumes  of  the  Law 
With  heathen  images.  A priest  of  God 
Wast  thou  in  other  days,  but  thou  art 
now 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 


333 


A priest  of  Satan.  Traitor,  thou  art  J a- 
son. 

Jason . I am  tliy  prisoner,  Judas  Mac- 
cabseus, 

And  it  would  ill  become  me  to  conceal 
My  name  or  office. 

Judas.  Over  yonder  gate 

There  hangs  the  head  of  one  who  was  a 
Greek. 

What  should  prevent  me  now,  thou  man 
of  sin, 

From  hanging  at  its  side  the  head  of 
one 

Who  born  a Jew  hath  made  himself  a 
Greek  ? 

Jason.  Justice  prevents  thee. 

Judas.  Justice  ? Thou  art  stained 
With  every  crime  ’gainst  which  the  Deca- 
logue 

Thunders  with  all  its  thunder. 

Jason.  If  not  Justice, 

Then  Mercy,  her  handmaiden. 

Judas.  When  hast  thou 

At  any  time,  to  any  man  or  woman, 

Or  even  to  any  little  child,  shown  mercy  ? 

Jason.  1 have  but  done  what  King 
Antiochus 
Commanded  me. 

Judas.  True,  thou  hast  been 

the  weapon 

With  which  he  struck  ; but  hast  been 
such  a weapon, 

So  flexible,  so  fitted  to  his  hand, 

It  tempted  him  to  strike.  So  thou  hast 
urged  him 

To  double  wickedness,  thine  own  and 
his. 

Where  is  this  King  ? Is  he  in  Antioch 
Among  his  women  still,  and  from  his 
windows 

Throwing  down  gold  by  handfuls,  for 
the  rabble 
To  scramble  for  ? 

Jason.  Nay,  he  is  gone  from  there, 
Gone  with  an  army  into  the  far  East. 

Judas.  And  wherefore  gone  ? 

Jason.  I know  not.  For  the  space 
Of  forty  days  almost  were  horsemen 
seen 

Running  in  air,  in  cloth  of  gold,  and 
armed 

With  lances,  like  a band  of  soldiery  ; 

It  was  a sign  of  triumph. 

Judas.  Or  of  death. 

Wherefore  art  thou  not  with  him  ? 

Jason.  I was  left 

For  service  in  the  Temple. 


Judas.  To  pollute  it, 

And  to  corrupt  the  Jews  ; for  there  are 
men 

Whose  presence  is  corruption ; to  be 
with  them 

Degrades  us  and  deforms  the  things  we 
do. 

Jason.  I never  made  a boast,  as  some 
men  do, 

Of  my  superior  virtue,  nor  denied 

The  weakness  of  my  nature,  that  hath 
made  me 

Subservient  to  the  will  of  other  men. 
Judas.  Upon  this  day,  the  five  and- 
twentieth  day 

Of  the  month  Caslan,  was  the  Temple 
here 

Profaned  by  strangers,  — by  Antiochus 

And  thee,  his  instrument.  Upon  this 
day 

Shall  it  be  cleansed.  Thou,  who  didst 
lend  thyself 

Unto  this  profanation,  canst  not  be 

A witness  of  these  solemn  services. 

There  can  be  nothing  clean  where  thou 
art  present. 

The  people  put  to  death  Callisthenes, 

Who  burned  the  Temple  gates  ; and  if 
they  find  thee 

Will  surely  slay  thee.  I will  spare  thy 
life 

To  punish  thee  the  longer.  Thou  shalt 
wander 

Among  strange  nations.  Thou,  that 
hast  cast  out 

So  many  from  their  native  land,  shalt 
perish 

In  a strange  land.  Thou,  that  hast  left 
so  many 

Unburied,  shalt  have  none  to  mourn  for 
thee, 

Nor  any  solemn  funerals  at  all, 

N or  sepulchre  with  thy  fathers.  — Get 
thee  hence  ! 

{Music.  Procession  of  Priests  and  people, 
with  citherns,  harps,  and  cymbals.  Ju- 
das Maccabeus  puts  himself  at  their 
head,  and  they  go  into  the  inner  courts.) 


Scene  III.  — Jason,  alone. 

Jason.  Through  the  Gate  Beautiful  I 
see  them  come 

With  branches  and  green  boughs  and 
leaves  of  palm, 

And  pass  into  the  inner  courts.  Alas  1 


334 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 


I should  be  with  them,  should  be  one  of 
them, 

But  in  an  evil  hour,  an  hour  of  weakness, 
That  cometh  unto  all,  1 fell  away 
From  the  old  faith,  and  did  not  clutch 
the  new, 

Only  an  outward  semblance  of  belief  ; 
For  the  new  faith  I cannot  make  mine 
own, 

Not  being  born  to  it.  It  hath  no  root 
Within  me.  I am  neither  Jew  nor 
Greek, 

But  stand  between  them  both,  a rene- 
gade 

To  each  in  turn  : having  no  longer  faith 
In  gods  or  men.  Then  what  mysterious 
charm, 

What  fascination  is  it  chains  my  feet, 
And  keeps  me  gazing  like  a curious  child 
Into  the  holy  places,  where  the  priests 
Have  raised  their  altar  ? — Striking 
stones  together, 

They  take  fire  out  of  them,  and  light 
the  lamps 

In  the  great  candlestick.  They  spread 
the  veils, 

And  set  the  loaves  of  showbread  on  the 
table. 

The  incense  burns  ; the  wrell -remembered 
odor 

Comes  wafted  unto  me,  and  takes  me 
back 

To  other  days.  I see  myself  among  them 
As  I was  then  ; and  the  old  superstition 
Creeps  over  me  again  ! — A childish 
fancy  ! — 

And  hark  ! they  sing  with  citherns  and 
with  cymbals, 

And  all  the  people  fall  upon  their  faces, 
Praying  and  worshipping  ! — 1 will  away 
Into  the  East,  to  meet  Antiochus 
Upon  his  homeward  journey,  crowned 
■with  triumph. 

Alas  ! to-day  I would  give  everything 
To  see  a friend’s  face,  or  to  hear  a voice 
That  had  the  slightest  tone  of  comfort 
in  it  ! 

ACT  Y. 

The  Mountains  of  Ecbatana. 

Scene  I.  — Antiochus  ; Philip  ; Attend- 
ants. 

Ant.  Here  let  us  rest  awhile.  Where 
are  we,  Philip  ? 

What  place  is  this  ? 


Philip.  Ecbatana,  my  Lord  ; 

And  yonder  mountain  range  is  the 
Orontes. 

Ant.  The  Orontes  is  my  river  at  An- 
tioch. 

Why  did  I leave  it  ? Why  have  I been 
tempted 

By  coverings  of  gold  and  shields  and 
breastplates 

To  plunder  Elymais,  and  be  driven 
From  out  its  gates,  as  by  a fiery  blast 
Out  of  a furnace  ? 

Philip.  These  are  fortune’s  changes. 

Ant.  What  a defeat  it  was  ! The 
Persian  horsemen 

Came  like  a mighty  wind,  the  wind 
Khamaseen, 

And  melted  us  away,  and  scattered  us 
As  if  we  were  dead  leaves,  or  desert 
sand. 

Philip.  Be  comforted,  my  Lord ; for 
thou  hast  lost 
But  what  thou  hadst  not. 

Ant.  I,  who  made  the  Jews 

Skip  like  the  grasshoppers,  am  made  my- 
self 

To  skip  among  these  stones. 

Philip.  Be  not  discouraged. 

Thy  realm  of  Syria  remains  to  thee  ; 
That  is  not  lost  nor  marred. 

Ant.  0,  where  are  now 

The  splendors  of  my  court,  my  baths  and 
banquets  ? 

Where  are  my  players  and  my  dancing 
women  ? 

Where  are  my  sweet  musicians  with  their 
pipes, 

That  made  me  merry  in  the  olden  time  ? 
I am  a laughing-stock  to  man  and  brute. 
The  very  camels,  with  their  ugly  faces, 
Mock  me  and  laugh  at  me. 

Philip.  Alas  ! my  Lord, 

It  is  not  so.  If  thou  wouldst  sleep 
awhile, 

All  would  be  well. 

Ant.  Sleep  from  mine  eyes  is  gone, 
And  my  heart  faileth  me  for  very  care. 
Dost  thou  remember,  Philip,  the  old 
fable 

Told  us  when  we  were  boys,  in  which  the 
bear 

Going  for  honey  overturns  the  hive, 

And  is  stung  biind  by  bees  ? I am  that 
beast, 

Stung  by  the  Persian  swarms  of  Elymais. 

Philip.  When  thou  art  come  again  to 
Antioch 


JUDAS  MACCABEUS. 


335 


These  thoughts  will  be  as  covered  and 
forgotten 

As  are  the  tracks  of  Pharaoh’s  chariot- 
wheels 

In  the  Egyptian  sands. 

Ant.  Ah  ! when  I come 

Again  to  Antioch  ! When  will  that  be  ? 
Alas  ! alas  ! 


Scene  II. — Antiochus;  Philip;  A Mes- 
senger. 

Messenger . May  the  King  live  forever  ! 

Ant . Who  art  thou,  and  whence  com- 
est  thou  ? 

Messenger.  My  Lord, 

I am  a messenger  from  Antioch, 

Sent  here  by  Lysias. 

Ant.  A strange  foreboding 

Of  something  evil  overshadows  me. 

I am  no  reader  of  the  Jewish  Scriptures  ; 
I know  not  Hebrew  ; but  my  High- 
Priest  Jason, 

As  I remember,  told  me  of  a Prophet 
Who  saw  a little  cloud  rise  from  the 
sea 

Like  a man’s  hand,  and  soon  the  heaven 
was  black 

With  clouds  and  rain.  Here,  Philip, 
read  ; I cannot  ; 

I see  that  cloud.  It  makes  the  letters 
dim 

Before  mine  eyes. 

Philip  {reading).  “To  King  Antio- 
chus, 

The  God,  Epiphanes.” 

Ant.  0 mockery  ! 

Even  Lysias  laughs  at  me  ! — Go  on,  go 
on  ! 

Philip  {reading).  “We  pray  thee 
hasten  thy  return.  The  realm 
Is  falling  from  thee.  Since  thou  hast 
gone  from  us 

The  victories  of  Judas  Maccabieus 
Form  all  our  annals.  First  he  overthrew 
Thy  forces  at  Beth-horon,  and  passed  on, 
And  took  Jerusalem,  the  Holy  City. 

And  then  Emmaus  fell ; and  then  Beth- 
sura  ; 

Ephron  and  all  the  towns  of  Galaad, 
And  Maccabaeus  marched  to  Carnion.” 

Ant.  Enough,  enough  ! Go  call  my 
chariot-men  ; 

We  will  drive  forward,  forward,  without 
ceasing, 

Until  we  come  to  Antioch.  My  captains, 


My  Lysias,  Gorgias,  Seron,  and  Nica- 
nor, 

Are  babes  in  battle,  and  this  dreadful 
Jew 

Will  rob  me  of  my  kingdom  and  my 
crown. 

My  elephants  shall  trample  him  to  dust ; 
I will  wipe  out  his  nation,  and  will 
make 

Jerusalem  a common  burying-place, 

And  every  home  within  its  walls  a 
tomb  ! 

( Throws  up  his  hands , and  sinks  into  the 

arms  of  attendants , who  lay  him  upon 

a bank) 

Philip.  Antiochus  ! Antiochus  ! Alas, 
The  King  is  ill  ! What  is  it,  0 my  Lord  ? 

Ant.  Nothing.  A sudden  and  sharp 
spasm  of  pain, 

As  if  the  lightning  struck  me,  or  the 
knife 

Of  an  assassin  smote  me  to  the  heart. 

*T  is  passed,  even  as  it  came.  Let  us 
set  forward. 

Philip.  See  that  the  chariots  be  in 
readiness  ; 

We  will  depart  forthwith. 

Ant.  A moment  more. 

I cannot  stand.  I am  become  at  once 
Weak  as  an  infant.  Ye  will  have  to 
lead  me. 

Jove,  or  Jehovah,  or  whatever  name 
Thou  wouldst  be  named,  — it  is  alike  to 
me,  — 

If  I knew  how  to  pray,  I would  entreat 
To  live  a little  longer. 

Philip.  0 my  Lord, 

Thou  shalt  not  die  ; we  will  not  let  thee 
die  ! 

Ant.  How  canst  thou  help  it,  Philip  ? 
0 the  pain  ! 

Stab  after  stab.  Thou  hast  no  shield 
against 

This  unseen  weapon.  God  of  Israel, 
Since  all  the  other  gods  abandon  me, 
Help  me.  I will  release  the  Holy  City, 
Garnish  with  goodly  gifts  the  Holy 
Temple. 

Thy  people,  whom  I judged  to  be  un- 
worthy 

To  be  so  much  as  buried,  shall  be  equal 
Unto  the  citizens  of  Antioch. 

I will  become  a Jew,  and  will  declare 
Through  all  the  world  that  is  inhabited 
The  power  of  God  ! 

Philip.  He  faints.  It  is  like  death. 


336 


A HANDFUL  OF  TRANSLATIONS. 


Bring  here  the  royal  litter.  We  will 
hear  him 

Into  the  camp,  while  yet  he  lives. 

d-nt.  0 Philip, 

Into  what  tribulation  am  I come  ! 

Alas  ! I now  remember  all  the  evil 

That  I have  done  the  Jews  ; and  for  this 
cause 

These  troubles  are  upon  me,  and  behold 

I perish  through  great  grief  in  a strange 
land. 

Philip.  Antiochus  ! my  King  ! 

4nt.  Nay,  King  no  longer. 

Take  thou  my  royal  robes,  my  signet- 
ring, 

My  crown  and  sceptre,  and  deliver  them 


Unto  my  son,  Antiochus  Eupator  ; 

And  unto  the  good  Jews,  my  citizens, 

In  all  my  towns,  say  that  their  dying 
monarch 

Wisheth  them  joy,  prosperity,  and 
health. 

I who,  puffed  up  with  pride  and  arro- 
gance, 

Thought  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth 
mine  own, 

If  I would  but  outstretch  my  hand  and 
take  them, 

Meet  face  to  face  a greater  potentate, 

King  Death  — Epiphanes  — the  Illus- 
trious ! 

[Dies. 


A HANDFUL  OF  TRANSLATIONS. 


THE  FUGITIVE. 

Tartar  Song  from  the  Prose  Version  of 
Chodzko. 

I. 

44  He  is  gone  to  the  desert  land  ! 

I can  see  the  shining  mane 
Of  his  horse  on  the  distant  plain, 

As  he  rides  with  his  Kossak  band  ! 

44  Come  back,  rebellious  one  ! 

Let  thy  proud  heart  relent  ; 

Come  back  to  my  tall,  white  tent, 
Come  back,  my  only  son  ! 

44  Thy  hand  in  freedom  shall 

Cast  thy  hawks,  when  morning  breaks, 

On  the  swans  of  the  Seven  Lakes, 

On  the  lakes  of  Karajal. 

4 4 1 will  give  thee  leave  to  stray 
And  pasture  thy  hunting  steeds 
In  the  long  grass  and  the  reeds 
Of  the  meadows  of  Karaday. 

4 4 1 will  give  thee  my  coat  of  mail, 

Of  softest  leather  made, 

With  choicest  steel  inlaid  ; 

Will  not  all  this  prevail  ? ” 

ii. 

44  This  hand  no  longer  shall 

Cast  my  hawks,  when  morning  breaks, 


On  the  swans  of  the  Seven  Lakes, 

On  the  lakes  of  Karajal. 

44 1 will  no  longer  stray 
And  pasture  my  hunting  steeds 
In  the  long  grass  and  the  reeds 
Of  the  meadows  of  Karaday, 

44  Though  thou  give  me  thy  coat  of  mail, 
Of  softest  leather  made, 

With  choicest  steel  inlaid, 

All  this  cannot  prevail. 

44  What  right  hast  thou,  0 Khan, 

To  me,  who  am  mine  own, 

Who  am  slave  to  God  alone, 

And  not  to  any  man  ? 

44  God  will  appoint  the  day 
When  I again  shall  be 
By  the  blue,  shallow  sea, 

Where  the  steel-bright  sturgeons  play. 

4 4 God,  who  doth  care  for  me, 

In  the  barren  wilderness, 

On  unknown  hills,  no  less 
Will  my  companion  be. 

44  When  I wander  lonely  and  lost 
In  the  wind  ; when  I watch  at  night 
Like  a hungry  wolf,  and  am  white 
And  covered  with  hoar-frost  ; 

44  Yea,  wheresoever  I be, 

In  the  yellow  desert  sands, 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  BROOK. 


337 


In  mountains  or  unknown  lands, 
Allah  will  care  for  me  ! ” 

hi. 

Then  Sobra,  the  old,  old  man,  — 
Three  hundred  and  sixty  years 
Had  he  lived  in  this  land  of  tears, 
Bowed  down  and  said,  44  0 Khan  ! 

“If  you  bid  me,  I will  speak. 

There ’s  no  sap  in  dry  grass, 

No  marrow  in  dry  bones  ! Alas, 

The  mind  of  old  men  is  weak  ! 

4 4 I am  old,  I am  very  old  : 

I have  seen  the  primeval  man, 

I have  seen  the  great  Gengis  Khan, 
Arrayed  in  his  robes  of  gold. 

‘ 4 What  I say  to  you  is  the  truth  ; 
And  I say  to  you,  0 Khan, 

Pursue  not  the  star-white  man, 
Pursue  not  the  beautiful  youth. 

44  Him  the  Almightv  made, 

And  brought  him  forth  of  the  light, 
At  the  verge  and  end  of  the  night, 
When  men  on  the  mountain  prayed. 

4 4 He  was  born  at  the  break  of  day, 
When  abroad  the  angels  walk  ; 

He  hath  listened  to  their  talk, 

And  he  knoweth  what  they  say. 

44  Gifted  with  Allah’s  grace, 

Like  the  moon  of  Ramazan 

When  it  shines  in  the  skies,  0 Khan, 

Is  the  light  of  his  beautiful  face. 

4 4 When  first  on  earth  he  trod, 

The  first  words  that  he  said 
Were  these,  as  he  stood  and  prayed, 
There  is  no  God  but  God  ! 

44  And  he  shall  be  king  of  men, 

For  Allah  hath  heard  his  prayer, 

And  the  Archangel  in  the  air, 
Gabriel,  hath  said,  Amen ! ” 


THE  SIEGE  OF  KAZAN. 

Tartar  Song , from  the  Prose  Version  of 
Chodzko. 

Black  are  the  moors  before  Kazan, 

And  their  stagnant  waters  smell  of 
blood  : 

22 


I said  in  my  heart,  with  horse  and  man, 
I will  swim  across  this  shallow  Hood. 

Under  the  feet  of  Argamack, 

Like  new  moons  were  the  shoes  he 
bare, 

Silken  trappings  hung  on  his  back, 

In  a talisman  on  his  neck,  a prayer. 

My  warriors,  thought  I,  are  following 
me  ; 

But  when  I looked  behind,  alas  ! 

Not  one  of  all  the  band  could  I see, 

All  had  sunk  in  the  black  morass  ! 

Where  are  our  shallow  fords  ? and  where 
The  power  of  Kazan  with  its  fourfold 
gates  ? 

From  the  prison  windows  our  maidens 
fair 

Talk  of  us  still  through  the  iron  grates. 

We  cannot  hear  them  ; for  horse  and  man 
Lie  buried  deep  in  the  dark  abyss  ! 

Ah  ! the  black  day  hath  come  down  on 
Kazan  ! 

Ah  ! was  ever  a grief  like  this  ? 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  BROOK. 

Armenian  Popular  Song , from  the  Prose 
Version  of  A lishan. 

Down  from  yon  distant  mountain 
height 

The  brooklet  flows  through  the  village 
street ; 

A boy  comes  forth  to  wash  his  hands, 
Washing,  yes  washing,  there  he  stands, 
In  the  water  cool  and  sweet. 

Brook,  from  what  mountain  dost  thou 
come, 

0 my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet  ! 

I come  from  yon  mountain  high  and 
cold, 

Where  lieth  the  new  snow  on  the  old, 
And  melts  in  the  summer  heat. 

Brook,  to  what  river  dost  thou  go  ? 

0 my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet  ! 

I go  to  the  river  there  below 
Where  in  bunches  the  violets  grow, 

And  sun  and  shadow  meet. 

Brook,  to  what  garden  dost  thou  go  ? 

0 my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet  ! 


338 


A HANDFUL  OF  TRANSLATIONS. 


I go  to  the  garden  in  the  vale 
Where  all  night  long  the  nightingale 
Her  love-song  doth  repeat. 

Brook,  to  what  fountain  dost  thou  go  ? 

0 my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet  ! 

I go  to  the  fountain  at  whose  brink 
The  maid  that  loves  thee  comes  to 
drink, 

And  whenever  she  looks  therein, 

I rise  to  meet  her,  and  kiss  her  chin, 
And  my  joy  is  then  complete. 


TO  THE  STORK. 

Armenian  Popular  Song , from  the  Prose 
Version  of  Alislian. 

Welcome,  0 Stork  ! that  dost  wing 
Thy  flight  from  the  far-away  ! 

Thou  hast  brought  us  the  signs  of 
Spring, 

Thou  hast  made  our  sad  hearts  gay. 

Descend,  0 Stork  ! descend 
Upon  our  roof  to  rest  ; 

In  our  ash-tree,  0 my  friend, 

My  darling,  make  thy  nest. 

To  thee,  0 Stork,  I complain, 

0 Stork,  to  thee  I impart 

The  thousand  sorrows,  the  pain 
And  aching  of  my  heart. 

When  thou  away  didst  go, 

Away  from  this  tree  of  ours, 

The  withering  winds  did  blow. 

And  dried  up  all  the  flowers. 

Dark  grew  the  "brilliant  sky, 

Cloudy  and  dark  and  drear  ; 

They  were  breaking  the  snow  on  high, 
And  winter  was  drawing  near. 

From  Varaca’s  rocky  wall, 

From  the  rock  of  Yaraca  unrolled, 

The  snow  came  and  covered  all, 

And  the  green  meadow  was  cold. 

0 Stork,  our  garden  with  snow 
Was  hidden  away  and  lost, 

And  the  rose-trees  that  in  it  grow 
Were  withered  by  snow  and  frost. 


CONSOLATION". 

To  M.  Duperrier , Gentleman  of  Aix 
in  Provence,  on  the  Death  of  his 
Daughter . 

FROM  MALHERBE. 

Will  then,  Duperrier,  thy  sorrow  be 
eternal  ? 

And  shall  the  sad  discourse 

Whispered  within  thy  heart,  by  tender- 
ness paternal, 

Only  augment  its  force  ? 

Thy  daughter’s  mournful  fate,  into  the 
tomb  descending 

By  death’s  frequented  ways, 

Has  it  become  to  thee  a labyrinth  never 
ending, 

Where  thy  lost  reason  strays  ? 

I know  the  cnarms  that  made  her  youth 
a benediction  : 

Nor  should  I be  content, 

As  a censorious  friend,  to  solace  thine 
affliction 

By  her  disparagement. 

But  she  was  of  the  world,  which  fairest  t 
things  exposes  i 

To  fates  the  most  forlorn  ; r 

A rose,  she  too  hath  lived  as  long  as  live 
the  roses, 

The  space  of  one  brief  morn. 

* * * * * 

Death  has  his  rigorous  laws,  unparal- 
leled, unfeeling; 

All  prayers  to  him  are  vain  ; 

Cruel,  he  stops  his  ears,  and,  deaf  to  our  ' 
appealing, 

He  leaves  us  to  complain. 

The  poor  man  in  his  hut,  with  only  thatch 
for  cover, 

Unto  these  laws  must  bend  ; . 

The  sentinel  that  guards  the  barriers  of 
the  Louvre 

Cannot  our  kings  defend. 

To  murmur  against  death,  in  petulant 
defiance, 

Is  never  for  the  best ; 

To  will  what  God  doth  will,  that  is  the 
only  science 

That  gives  us  any  rest. 


TO  ITALY. 


339 


TO  CARDINAL  RICHELIEU. 

FROM  MALHERBE. 

Thou  mighty  Prince  of  Church  and 
State, 

Richelieu  ! until  the  hour  of  death, 
Whatever  road  man  chooses,  Fate 
Still  holds  him  subject  to  her  breath. 
Spun  of  all  silks,  our  days  and  nights 
Have  sorrows  woven  with  delights; 

And  of  this  intermingled  shade 
Our  various  destiny  appears, 

Even  as  one  sees  the  course  of  years 
Of  summers  and  of  winters  made. 

Sometimes  the  soft,  deceitful  hours 
Let  us  enjoy  the  halcyon  wave  ; 
Sometimes  impending  peril  lowers 
Beyond  the  seaman’s  skill  to  save. 

The  Wisdom,  infinitely  wise, 

That  gives  to  human  destinies 
Their  foreordained  necessity, 

Has  made  no  law  more  fixed  below, 

Than  the  alternate  ebb  and  flow 
Of  Fortune  and  Adversity. 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  CHILD. 

FROM  JEAN  REBOUL,  THE  BAKER  OF 
NISMES. 

An  angel  with  a radiant  face, 

Above  a cradle  bent  to  look, 

Seemed  his  own  image  there  to  trace, 

As  in  the  waters  of  a brook. 

li  Dear  child  ! who  me  resemblest  so,” 

It  whispered,  “come,  O come  with 
me  ! 

Happy  together  let  us  go, 

The  earth  unworthy  is  of  thee  ! 

Here  none  to  perfect  bliss  attain  ; 

The  soul  in  pleasure  suffering  lies  ; 

Joy  hath  an  undertone  of  pain, 

And  even  the  happiest  hours  their 
sighs. 

“Fear  doth  at  every  portal  knock  ; 

Never  a day  serene  and  pure 
From  the  o’ershadowing  tempest’s  shock 
Hath  made  the  morrow’s  dawn  secure. 

" What,  then,  shall  sorrows  and  shall 
fears 

Come  to  disturb  so  pure  a brow  ? 


And  with  the  bitterness  of  tears 
These  eyes  of  azure  troubled  grow  ? 

“ Ah  no  ! into  the  fields  of  space. 

Away  shalt  thou  escape  with  me  ; 

And  Providence  will  grant  thee  grace 
Of  all  the  days  that  were  to  be. 

“ Let  no  one  in  thy  dwelling  cower, 

In  sombre  vestments  draped  and 
veiled  ; 

But  let  them  welcome  thy  last  hour, 

As  thy  first  moments  once  they  hailed. 

“ Without  a cloud  be  there  each 
brow  ; 

There  let  the  grave  no  shadow  cast ; 
When  one  is  pure  as  thou  art  now. 

The  fairest  day  is  still  the  last.” 

And  waving  wide  his  wings  of  white, 
The  angel,  at  these  words,  had 
sped 

Towards  the  eternal  realms  of  light  ! — • 
Poor  mother  ! see,  thy  son  is  dead  ! 


TO  ITALY. 

FROM  FILICAJA. 

Italy  ! Italy  ! thou  who  ’rt  doomed  to 
wear 

The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  and  possess 

The  dower  funest  of  infinite  wretched- 
ness 

W ritten  upon  thy  forehead  by  despair ; 

Ah  ! would  that  thou  wert  stronger,  or 
less  fair. 

That  they  might  fear  thee  more,  or  love 
thee  less, 

Who  in  the  splendor  of  thy  loveli- 
ness 

Seem  wasting,  yet  to  mortal  combat 
dare  ! 

Then  from  the  Alps  I should  not  see  de- 
scending 

Such  torrents  of  armed  men,  nor  Gallic 
horde 

Drinking  the  wave  of  Po,  distained 
with  gore, 

Nor  should  I see  thee  girded  with  a 
sword 

Not  thine,  and  with  the  stranger’s  arm 
contending, 

Victor  or  vanquished,  slave  forever- 
more. 


340 


A HANDFUL  OF  TRANSLATIONS. 


WANDERER’S  NIGHT-SONGS. 

FROM  GOETHE. 


Thou  that  from  the  heavens  art, 
Every  pain  and  sorrow  stillest, 
And  the  doubly  wretched  heart 
Doubly  with  refreshment  Idlest, 

I am  weary  with  contending  ! 
Why  tills  rapture  and  unrest  ? 
Peace  descending 
Come,  ah,  come  into  my  breast ! 

IT. 

O’er  all  the  hill-tops 
Is  quiet  now, 

In  all  the  tree-tops 
Hearest  thou 
Hardly  a breath  ; 

The  birds  are  asleep  in  the  trees  : 
Wait  ; soon  like  these 
Thou  too  shalt  rest. 


REMORSE. 

FROM  AUGUST  VON  PLATEN. 

Gow  I started  up  in  the  night,  in  the 
night, 

Drawn  on  without  rest  or  reprieval ! 

The  streets,  with  their  watchmen,  were 
lost  to  my  sight, 

As  I wandered  so  light 
In  the  night,  in  the  night, 

Through  the  gate  with  the  arch  mediae- 
val. 

The  mill-brook  rushed  from  the  rocky 
height, 

I leaned  o’er  the  bridge  in  my  yearn- 
ing ; 


Deep  under  me  watched  I the  waves  in 
their  flight, 

As  they  glided  so  light 
In  the  night,  in  the  night, 

Yet  backward  not  one  was  returning. 

O’erhead  were  revolving,  so  countless 
and  bright, 

The  stars  in  melodious  existence  ; 

And  with  them  the  moon,  more  serenely 
bedight ; — 

They  sparkled  so  light 
In  the  night,  in  the  night, 

Through  the  magical,  measureless  dis- 
tance. 


And  upward  I gazed  in  the  night,  in  the 
night, 

And  again  on  the  waves  in  their  fleet- 

in  O'  • 

Ah  woe  ! thou  hast  wasted  thy  days  in 
delight, 

Now  silence  thou  light, 

In  the  night,  in  the  night, 

The  remorse  in  thy  heart  that  is  beating. 


SANTA  TERESA’S  BOOK-MARK. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  SANTA  TERESA. 

Let  nothing  disturb  thee, 
Nothing  aflright  thee  ; 

All  things  are  passing  ; 

God  never  changeth  ; 

Patient  endurance 
Attain eth  to  all  things  ; 

Who  God  possesseth 
In  nothing  is  wanting  ; 

Alone  God  sufficeth. 


Add  to  Interlude,  p.  295,  after  the  line, 

Besides,  unless  my  memory  fail, 

Your  some  one  with  an  iron  flail 
Is  not  an  ancient  myth  at  all, 

But  comes  much  later  on  the  scene 
As  Talus  in  the  Faerie  Queene, 


“Not  what  men  saw,  but  what  they  feared.” 

The  iron  groom  of  Artegall, 

Who  threshed  out  falsehood  and  deceit, 
And  truth  upheld,  and  righted  wrong, 
As  was,  as  is  the  swallow,  fleet, 

And  as  the  lion  is,  was  strong,” 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


341 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


i. 

THE  WORKSHOP  OF  HEPHAESTUS. 

Hephaestus,  standing  before  the  statue  of 
Pandora. 

Hot  fashioned  out  of  gold,  like  Hera’s 
throne, 

Nor  forged  of  iron  like  the  thunderbolts 
Of  Zeus  omnipotent,  or  other  works 
Wrought  by  my  hands  at  Lemnos  or 
Olympus, 

But  moulded  in  soft  clay,  that  unresist- 
ing 

Yields  itself  to  the  touch,  this  lovely 
form 

Before  me  stands,  perfect  in  every  part. 
Not  Aphrodite’s  self  appeared  more  fair, 
When  first  upwafted  by  caressing  winds 
She  came  to  high  Olympus,  and  the  gods 
Paid  homage  to  her  beauty.  Thus  her 
hair 

Was  cinctured ; thus  her  floating  dra- 

. Pepy 

Was  like  a cloud  about  her,  and  her  face 
Was  radiant  with  the  sunshine  and  the 
sea. 

THE  VOICE  OF  ZEUS. 

Is  thy  work  done,  Hephaestus  ? 

HEPHAESTUS. 

It  is  finished  ! 

THE  VOICE. 

Not  finished  till  I breathe  the  breath  of 
life 

Into  her  nostrils,  and  she  moves  and 
speaks. 

HEPHaESTUS. 

Will  she  become  immortal  like  ourselves  ? 

THE  VOICE. 

The  form  that  thou  hast  fashioned  out 
of  clay 

Is  of  the  earth  and  mortal ; but  the  spirit, 


The  life,  the  exhalation  of  my  breath, 

Is  of  diviner  essence  and  immortal. 

The  gods  shall  shower  on  her  their  ben- 
efactions, 

She  shall  possess  all  gifts  : the  gift  of 
song, 

The  gift  of  eloquence,  the  gift  of  beauty, 
The  fascination  and  the  nameless  charm 
That  shall  lead  all  men  captive. 

HEPHaESTUS. 

Wherefore  ? wherefore  ? 

A toind  shakes  the  house. 

I hear  the  rushing  of  a mighty  wind 
Through  all  the  halls  and  chambers  of 
my  house  ! 

Her  parted  lips  inhale  it,  and  her  bosom 
Heaves  with  the  inspiration.  As  a reed 
Beside  a river  in  the  rippling  current 
Bends  to  and  fro,  she  bows  or  lifts  her 
head. 

She  gazes  round  about  as  if  amazed  ; 

She  is  alive  ; she  breathes,  but  yet  she 
speaks  not ! 

Pandora  descends  from  the  'pedestal. 


CHORUS  OF  THE  GRACES. 
AGLAIA. 

In  the  workshop  of  Hephaestus 
What  is  this  I see  ? 

Have  the  Gods  to  four  increased  us 
Who  were  only  three  ? 
Beautiful  in  form  and  feature, 
Lovely  as  the  day, 

Can  there  be  so  fair  a creature 
Formed  of  common  clay  ? 

THALIA. 

0 sweet,  pale  face ! 0 lovely  eyes  of 

azure, 

Clear  as  the  waters  of  a brook  that  run 
Limpid  and  laughing  in  the  summef 
sun  ! 


342  THE  MASQUE 

O golden  hair  that  like  a miser’s  treas- 
ure 

In  its  abundance  overflows  the  measure  ! 

0 graceful  form,  that  cloudlike  floatest 
on 

With  the  soft,  undulating  gait  of  one 

Who  moveth  as  if  motion  were  a pleas- 
ure ! 

By  what  name  shall  I call  thee  ? Nymph 
or  Muse, 

Callirrhoe  or  Urania  ? Some  sweet 
name 

Whose  every  syllable  is  a caress 

Would  best  befit  thee  ; but  I cannot 
choose, 

Nor  do  I care  to  choose  ; for  still  the 
same, 

Nameless  or  named,  will  be  thy  love- 
liness. 

EUPHROSYNE. 

Dowered  with  all  celestial  gifts, 
Skilled  in  every  art 
That  ennobles  and  uplifts 
And  delights  the  heart, 

Fair  on  earth  shall  be  thy  fame 
As  thy  face  is  fair, 

And  Pandora  be  the  name 

Thou  henceforth  shalt  bear. 


II. 

OLYMPUS. 

hermes,  putting  on  his  sandals. 

Much  must  he  toil  who  serves  the  Im- 
mortal Gods, 

And  I,  who  am  their  herald,  most  of  all. 

No  rest  have  I,  nor  respite.  I no  sooner 

Unclasp  the  winged  sandals  from  my 
feet, 

Than  I again  must  clasp  them,  and  de- 
part 

Upon  some  foolish  errand.  But  to-day 

The  errand  is  not  foolish.  Never  yet 

With  greater  joy  did  I obey  the  summons 

That  sends  me  earthward.  I will  fly  so 
swiftly 

That  my  caduceus  in  the  whistling  air 

Shall  make  a sound  like  the  Pandsean 
pipes, 

Cheating  the  shepherds  ; for  to-day  I go, 

Commissioned  by  high- thundering  Zeus, 
to  lead 

A maiden  to  Prometheus,  in  his  tower, 


OF  PANDORA. 

And  by  my  cunning  arguments  persuade 
him 

To  marry  her.  What  mischief  lies  con- 
cealed 

In  this  design  I know  not ; but  I know 

Who  thinks  of  marrying  hath  already 
taken 

One  step  upon  the  road  to  penitence. 

Such  embassies  delight  me.  Forth  I 
launch 

On  the  sustaining  air,  nor  fear  to  fall 

Like  Icarus,  nor  swerve  aside  like  him 

Who  drove  amiss  Hyperion’s  fiery  steeds. 

I sink,  I fly  ! The  yielding  element 

Folds  itself  round  about  me  like  an  arm, 

And  holds  me  as  a mother  holds  her 
child. 


III. 

TOWER  OF  PROMETHEUS  ON 
MOUNT  CAUCASUS. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I hear  the  trumpet  of  Alectryon 
Proclaim  the  dawn.  The  stars  begin  to 
fade, 

And  all  the  heavens  are  full  of  prophecies 
And  evil  auguries.  Blood-red  last  night 
I saw  great  Kronos  rise  ; the  crescent 
moon 

Sank  through  the  mist,  as  if  it  were  the 
scythe 

His  parricidal  hand  had  flung  far  down 
The  western  steeps.  0 ye  Immortal 
Gods, 

What  evil  are  ye  plotting  and  contriving  ? 
Hermes  and  Pandora  at  the  threshold. 

PANDORA. 

I cannot  cross  the  threshold.  An  unseen 
And  icy  hand  repels  me.  These  blank 
walls 

Oppress  me  with  their  weight ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Powerful  ye  are, 

But  not  omnipotent.  Ye  cannot  fight 
Against  Necessity.  The  Fates  control 
y°ib 

As  they  do  us,  and  so  far  we  are  equals ! 

PANDORA. 

Motionless,  passionless,  companionless, 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


343 


He  sits  there  muttering  in  his  beard. 
His  voice 

Is  like  a river  flowing  underground  ! 
HERMES. 

Prometheus,  hail ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Who  calls  me  ? 

HERMES. 

It  is  I. 

Dost  thou  not  know  me  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

By  thy  winged  cap 
And  winged  heels  I know  thee.  Thou 
art  Hermes, 

Captain  of  thieves!  Hast  thou  again 
been  stealing 

The  heifers  of  Admetus  in  the  sweet 
Meadows  of  asphodel  ? or  Hera’s  girdle  ? 
Or  the  earth-shaking  trident  of  Poseidon  ? 

HERMES. 

And  thou,  Prometheus  ; say,  hast  thou 
again 

Been  stealing  fire  from  Helios’  chariot- 
wheels 

To  light  thy  furnaces  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Why  comest  thou  hither 
So  early  in  the  dawn  ? 

HERMES. 

The  Immortal  Gods 
Know  naught  of  late  or  early.  Zeus 
himself 

The  omnipotent  hath  sent  me. 

PROMETHEUS. 

For  what  purpose  ? 

HERMES.  — 

To  bring  this  maiden  to  thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I mistrust 

The  Gods  and  all  their  gifts.  If  they 
have  sent  her 
It  is  for  no  good  purpose. 

HERMES. 

What  disaster 
Could  she  bring  on  thy  house,  who  is  a 
woman  ? 


PROMETHEUS. 

The  Gods  are  not  my  friends,  nor  am  I 
theirs. 

Whatever  comes  from  them,  though  in 
a shape 

As  beautiful  as  this,  is  evil  only. 

Who  art  thou  ? 

PANDORA. 

One  who,  though  to  thee  unknown, 
Yet  knoweth  thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

How  shouldst  thou  know  me,  woman  ? 

PANDORA. 

Who  knoweth  not  Prometheus  the  hu- 
mane ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Prometheus  the  unfortunate  ; to  whom 
Both  Gods  and  men  have  shown  them- 
selves ungrateful. 

When  every  spark  was  quenched  on  every 
hearth 

Throughout  the  earth,  I brought  to  man 
the  fire 

And  all  its  ministrations.  My  reward 
Hath  been  the  rock  and  vulture. 

HERMES. 

But  the  Gods 

At  last  relent  and  pardon. 

PROMETHEUS. 

They  relent  not ; 
They  pardon  not ; they  are  implacable. 
Revengeful,  unforgiving  ! 

HERMES. 

As  a pledge 

Of  reconciliation  they  have  sent  to  thee 
This  divine  being,  to  be  thy  companion, 
And  bring  into  thy  melancholy  house 
The  sunshine  and  the  fragrance  of  her 
youth. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I need  them  not.  I have  within  myself 
All  that  my  heart  desires ; the  ideal 
beauty 

Which  the  creative  faculty  of  mind 
Fashions  and  follows  in  a thousand 
shapes 

More  lovely  than  the  real.  My  own 
thoughts 


344 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


Are  my  companions ; my  designs  and 
labors 

And  aspirations  are  my  only  friends. 

HERMES. 

Decide  not  rashly.  The  decision  made 
Can  never  be  recalled.  The  Gods  im- 
plore not, 

Plead  not,  solicit  not ; they  only  offer 
Choice  and  occasion,  which  once  being 
passed 

Return  no  more.  Dost  thou  accept  the 
gift? 

PROMETHEUS. 

No  gift  of  theirs,  in  whatsoever  shape 
It  comes  to  me,  with  whatsoever  charm 
To  fascinate  my  sense,  will  I receive. 
Leave  me. 

PANDORA. 

Let  us  go  hence.  I will  not  stay. 

HERMES. 

We  leave  thee  to  thv  vacant  dreams,  and 
all 

The  silence  and  the  solitude  of  thought, 
The  endless  bitterness  of  unbelief, 

The  loneliness  of  existence  without  love. 


CHORUS  OF  THE  FATES. 
CLOTHO. 

How  the  Titan,  the  defiant, 

The  self-centred,  self-reliant, 
Wrapped  in  visions  and  illusions, 
Robs  himself  of  life’s  best  gifts  ! 

Till  by  all  the  storm -winds  shaken, 
By  the  blast  of  fate  o’ertaken, 
Hopeless,  helpless,  and  forsaken, 

In  the  mists  of  his  confusions 
To  the  reefs  of  doom  he  drifts  ! 

LACHESIS. 

Sorely  tried  and  sorely  tempted, 
From  no  agonies  exempted, 

In  the  penance  of  his  trial, 

And  the  discipline  of  pain  ; 

Often  by  illusions  cheated, 

Often  baffled  and  defeated 
In  the  tasks  to  be  completed, 

He,  by  toil  and  self-denial, 

To  the  highest  shall  attain. 

ATROPOS. 

Tempt  no  more  the  noble  schemer  ; 
Bear  unto  some  idle  dreamer 


This  new  toy  and  fascination, 
This  new  dalliance  and  delight  ! 
To  the  garden  where  reposes 
Epimetheus  crowned  with  roses, 
To  the  door  that  never  closes 
Upon  pleasure  and  temptation, 
Bring  this  vision  of  the  night ! 


IV. 

THE  AIR. 

hermes,  returning  to  Olympus. 

As  lonely  as  the  tower  that  he  inhabits, 
As  firm  and  cold  as  are  the  crags  about 
him, 

Prometheus  stands.  The  thunderbolts 
of  Zeus 

Alone  can  move  him  ; but  the  tender 
heart 

Of  Epimetheus,  burning  at  white  heat, 
Hammers  and  flames  like  all  his  broth- 
er’s forges  ! 

Now  as  an  arrow  from  Hyperion’s  bow, 
My  errand  done,  I fly,  I float,  I soar 
Into  the  air,  returning  to  Olympus. 

0 joy  of  motion  ! 0 delight  to  cleave 
The  infinite  realms  of  space,  the  liquid 

ether, 

Through  the  w’arm  sunshine  and  the 
cooling  cloud, 

Myself  as  light  as  sunbeam  or  as  cloud  ! 
With  one  touch  of  my  swift  and  winged 
feet, 

1 spurn  the  solid  earth,  and  leave  it 

rocking 

As  rocks  the  bough  from  which  a bird 
takes  wing. 


y. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  EPIMETHEUS. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Beautiful  apparition  ! go  not  hence  ! 
Surely  thou  art  a Goddess,  for  thy  voice 
Is  a celestial  melody,  and  thy  form 
Self-poised  as  if  it  floated  on  the  air  ! 

PANDORA. 

No  Goddess  am  I,  nor  of  heavenly  birth, 
But  a mere  woman  fashioned  out  of  clay 
And  mortal  as  the  rest. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


345 


EPIMETHEUS. 

Thy  face  is  fair ; 

There  is  a wonder  in  thine  azure  eyes 

That  fascinates  me.  Thy  whole  pres- 
ence seems 

A soft  desire,  a breathing  thought  of  love. 

Say,  would  thy  star  like  Merope’s  grow 
dim 

If  thou  shouldst  wed  beneath  thee  ? 

pandora. 

Ask  me  not ; 

I cannot  answer  thee.  I only  know 

The  Gods  have  sent  me  hither. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

I believe, 

And  thus  believing  am  most  fortunate. 

It  was  not  Hermes  led  thee  here,  but 
Eros, 

And  swifter  than  his  arrows  were  thine 
eyes 

In  wounding  me.  There  was  no  mo- 
ment’s space 

Between  my  seeing  thee  and  loving  thee. 

0,  what  a telltale  face  thou  hast  ! Again 

I see  the  wonder  in  thy  tender  eyes. 

PANDORA. 

They  do  but  answer  to  the  love  in  thine, 

Yet  secretly  I wonder  thou  shouldst 
love  me. 

Thou  knowest  me  not. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Perhaps  I know  thee  better 

Than  had  I known  thee  longer.  Yet  it 
seems 

That  I have  always  known  thee,  and 
but  now 

Have  found  thee.  Ah,  I have  been 
waiting  long. 

o o 

PANDORA. 

How  beautiful  is  this  house  ! The  at- 
mosphere 

Breathes  rest  and  comfort,  and  the  many 
chambers 

Seem  full  of  welcomes. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

They  not  only  seem, 

But  truly  are.  This  dwelling  and  its 
master 

Belong  to  thee. 


PANDORA. 

Here  let  me  stay  forever ! 
There  is  a spell  upon  me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou  thyself 

Art  the  enchantress,  and  I feel  thy 
power 

Envelop  me,  and  wrap  my  soul  and  sense 
In  an  Elysian  dream. 

PANDORA. 

0,  let  me  stay. 

How  beautiful  are  all  things  round  about 
me, 

Multiplied  by  the  mirrors  on  the  walls  ! 
What  treasures  hast  thou  here  ! Yon 
oaken  chest, 

Carven  with  figures  and  embossed  with 
gold, 

Is  wonderful  to  look  upon  ! What  choice 
And  precious  things  dost  thou  keep  hid- 
den in  it  ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

I know  not.  ’T  is  a mystery. 

PANDORA. 

Hast  thou  never 

Lifted  the  lid  ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The  oracle  forbids. 

Safely  concealed  there  from  all  mortal 
eyes 

Forever  sleeps  the  secret  of  the  Gods. 
Seek  not  to  know  what  they  have  hidden 
from  thee, 

Till  they  themselves  reveal  it. 

PANDORA. 

As  thou  wilt. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Let  us  go  forth  from  this  mysterious 
place. 

The  garden  walks  are  pleasant  at  this 
hour  ; 

The  nightingales  among  the  sheltering 
boughs 

Of  populous  and  many-nested  trees 
Shall  teach  me  how  to  woo  thee,  and 
shall  tell  me 

By  what  resistless  charms  or  incantations 
They  won  their  mates. 


346 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


PANDORA. 

Thou  dost  not  need  a teacher. 
They  go  out. 

CHORUS  OF  THE  EUMENIDES. 

What  the  Immortals 
Confide  to  thy  keeping, 

Tell  unto  no  man  ; 

Waking  or  sleeping, 

Closed  be  thy  portals 
To  friend  as  to  foeman. 

Silence  conceals  it ; 

The  word  that  is  spoken 
Betrays  and  reveals  it ; 

By  breath  or  by  token 
The  charm  may  be  broken. 

With  shafts  of  their  splendors 
The  Gods  unforgiving 
Pursue  the  offenders, 

The  dead  and  the  living! 

Fortune  forsakes  them, 

Nor  earth  shall  abide  them, 

N or  Tartarus  hide  them ; 

Swift  wrath  overtakes  them ! 

With  useless  endeavor, 

Forever,  forever, 

Is  Sisyphus  rolling 

His  stone  up  the  mountain  ! 

Immersed  in  the  fountain, 

Tantalus  tastes  not 
The  water  that  wastes  not ! 

Through  ages  increasing 
The  pangs  that  afflict  him, 

With  motion  unceasing 
The  wheel  of  Ixion 
Shall  torture  its  victim  ! 


VI. 

IN  THE  GARDEN. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Yon  snow-white  cloud  that  sails  sublime 
in  ether 

Is  but  the  sovereign  Zeus,  who  like  a 
swan 

Flies  to  fair-ankled  Leda ! 

PANDORA. 

Or  perchance 

Ixion’s  cloud,  the  shadowy  shape  of  Hera, 
That  bore  the  Centaurs. 


EPIMETHEUS. 

The  divine  and  human. 

CHORUS  OF  BIRDS. 

Gently  swaying  to  and  fro, 

Rocked  by  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
Bright  with  sunshine  from  above 
Dark  with  shadow  from  below, 

Beak  to  beak  and  breast  to  breast 
In  the  cradle  of  their  nest, 

Lie  the  fledglings  of  our  love. 

ECHO. 

Love ! love ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Hark  ! listen ! Hear  how  sweetly  over- 
head 

The  feathered  flute-players  pipe  their 
songs  of  love, 

And  echo  answers,  love  and  only  love. 

CHORUS  OF  BIRDS. 

Every  flutter  of  the  wing, 

Every  note  of  song  we  sing, 

Every  murmur,  every  tone, 

Is  of  love  and  love  alone. 

* 

ECHO. 

Love  alone ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Who  would  not  love,  if  loving  she  might 
be 

Changed  like  Callisto  to  a star  in  heaven  ? 

PANDORA. 

Ah,  who  would  love,  if  loving  she  might 
be 

Like  Semele  consumed  and  burnt  to 
ashes  ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Whence  knowest  thou  these  stories  ? 

PANDORA. 

Hermes  taught  me ; 

He  told  me  all  the  history  of  the  Gods. 

CHORUS  OF  REEDS. 

Evermore  a sound  shall  be 
In  the  reeds  of  Arcady, 

Evermore  a low  lament 
Of  unrest  and  discontent, 


THE  MASQUE 

As  the  story  is  retold 
Of  the  nymph  so  coy  and  cold,  * 
Who  with  frightened  feet  outran 
The  pursuing  steps  of  Pan. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The  pipe  of  Pan  out  of  these  reeds  is 
made, 

And  when  he  plays  upon  it  to  the  shep- 
herds 

They  pity  him,  so  mournful  is  the  sound. 
Be  thou  not  coy  and  cold  as  Syrinx  was. 

PANDORA. 

Nor  thou  as  Pan  be  rude  and  mannerless. 

Prometheus,  without. 

Ho  ! Epimetheus  ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

’T  is  my  brother’s  voice  ; 
A sound  unwelcome  and  inopportune 
As  wras  the  braying  of  Silenus’  ass, 

Once  heard  in  Cybele’s  garden. 

PANDORA. 

Let  me  go. 

I would  not  be  found  here.  I would 
not  see  him. 

She  escapes  among  the  trees. 


CHORUS  OF  DRYADES. 

Haste  and  hide  thee, 

Ere  too  late, 

In  these  thickets  intricate  ; 

Lest  Prometheus 
See  and  chide  thee, 

Lest  some  hurt 
Or  harm  betide  thee, 

Haste  and  hide  thee  ! 

Prometheus,  entering. 

Who  was  it  fled  from  here?  I saw  a 
shape 

Flitting  among  the  trees. 

epimetheus. 

It  was  Pandora. 

PROMETHEUS. 

0 Epimetheus  ! Is  it  then  in  vain 


OF  PANDORA.  347 

That  I have  warned  thee  ? Let  me  now 
implore. 

Thou  harborest  in  thy  house  a dangerous 
guest. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Whom  the  Gods  love  they  honor  with 
such  guests. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Whom  the  Gods  would  destroy  they  first 
make  mad. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Shall  I refuse  the  gifts  they  send  to  me  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Reject  all  gifts  that  come  from  higher 
powers. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Such  gifts  as  this  are  not  to  be  rejected. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Make  not  thyself  the  slave  of  any  woman. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Make  not  thyself  the  judge  of  any  man. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I judge  thee  not  ; for  thou  art  more  than 
man  ; 

Thou  art  descended  from  Titanic  race, 

And  hast  a Titan’s  strength,  and  faculties 

That  make  thee  godlike ; and  thou  sittest 
here 

Like  Heracles  spinning  Omphale’s  flax, 

And  beaten  with  her  sandals. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

0 my  brother ! 

Thou  drivest  me  to  madness  with  thy 
taunts. 

PROMETHEUS. 

And  me  thou  drivest  to  madness  with  thy 
follies. 

Come  with  me  to  my  tower  on  Caucasus  : 

See  there  my  forges  in  the  roaring  cav- 
erns, 

Beneficent  to  man,  and  taste  the  joy 

That  springs  from  labor.  Read  with  me 
the  stars. 

And  learn  the  virtues  that  lie  hidden  in 
plants, 

And  all  things  that  are  useful. 


348 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


EPIMETHEUS. 

O my  brother ! 
I am  not  as  thou  art.  Thou  dost  inherit 
Our  father’s  strength,  and  I our  mother’s 
weakness : 

The  softness  of  the  Oceanides, 

The  yielding  nature  that  cannot  resist. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Because  thou  wilt  not. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Nay;  because  I cannot. 
PROMETHEUS. 

Assert  thyself ; rise  up  to  thy  full  height ; 
Shake  from  thy  soul  these  dreams  effemi- 
nate, 

These  passions  born  of  indolence  and 
ease. 

Resolve,  and  thou  art  free.  But  breathe 
the  air 

Of  mountains,  and  their  unapproachable 
summits 

Will  lift  thee  to  the  level  of  themselves. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The  roar  of  forests  and  of  waterfalls, 

The  rushing  of  a mighty  wind,  with  loud 
And  undistinguishable  voices  calling. 
Are  in  my  ear  ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

O,  listen  and  obey. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou  leadest  me  as  a child.  I follow 
thee. 

They  jo  out. 


CHORUS  OF  OREADES. 

Centuries  old  are  the  mountains; 
Their  foreheads  wrinkled  and  rifted 
Helios  crowns  by  day, 

Pallid  Selene  by  night  ; 

From  their  bosoms  nptossed 
The  snows  are  driven  and  drifted. 
Like  Titbonus’  beard 
Streaming  dishevelled  and  white. 

Thunder  and  tempest  of  wind 
Their  trumpets  blow  in  the  vastness ; 
Phantoms  of  mist  and  rain, 

Cloud  and  the  shadow  of  cloud. 


Pass  and  repass  by  the  gates 
Of.  their  inaccessible  fastness  ; 
Ever  unmoved  they  stand, 
Solemn,  eternal,  and  proud. 


VOICES  OF  THE  WATERS. 

Flooded  by  rain  and  snow 
In  their  inexhaustible  sources. 

Swollen  by  affluent  streams 
Hurrying  onward  and  hurled 
Headlong  over  the  crags. 

The  impetuous  water-courses, 

Rush  and  roar  and  plunge 
Down  to  the  nethermost  world. 

Say,  have  the  solid  rocks 

Into  streams  of  silver  been  melted. 

Flowing  over  the  plains. 

Spreading  to  lakes  in  the  fields  ? 

Or  have  the  mountains,  the  giants. 
The  ice-helmed,  the  forest-belted, 
Scattered  their  arms  abroad ; 

Flung  in  the  meadows  their  shields  ? 

VOICES  OF  THE  WINDS. 

High  on  their  turreted  cliffs 
That  holts  of  thunder  have  shattered. 
Storm -winds  muster  and  blow 
Trumpets  of  terrible  breath  ; 

Then  from  the  gateways  rush, 

And  before  them  routed  and  scattered 
Sullen  the  cloud-rack  flies. 

Pale  with  the  pallor  of  death. 

Onward  the  hurricane  rides. 

And  flee  for  shelter  the  shepherds  ; 
White  are  the  frightened  leaves, 
Harvests  with  terror  are  white  ; 

Panic  seizes  the  herds, 

And  even  the  lions  and  leopards, 
Prowling  no  longer  for  prey, 

Crouch  in  their  caverns  with  fright. 


VOICES  OF  THE  FOREST. 

Guarding  the  mountains  around 
Majestic  the  forests  are  standing. 
Bright  are  their  crested  helms. 
Dark  is  their  armor  of  leaves  ; 
Filled  with  the  breath  of  freedom 
Each  bosom  subsiding,  expanding. 
Now  like  the  ocean  sinks, 

Now  like  the  ocean  upheaves. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


349 


Planted  firm  on  the  rock, 

With  foreheads  stern  and  defiant, 
Loud  they  shout  to  the  winds, 
Loud  to  the  tempest  they  call ; 
Naught  but  Olympian  thunders, 
That  blasted  Titan  and  Giant, 
Them  can  uproot  and  o’erthrow, 
Shaking  the  earth  with  their  fall. 


CHORUS  OF  OREADES. 

These  are  the  Voices  Three 
Of  winds  and  forests  and  fountains, 
Voices  of  earth  and  of  air, 

Murmur  and  rushing  of  streams, 
Making  together  one  sound, 

The  mysterious  voice  of  the  mountains, 
Waking  the  sluggard  that  sleeps, 
Waking  the  dreamer  of  dreams. 

These  are  the  Voices  Three, 

That  speak  of  endless  endeavor, 

Speak  of  endurance  and  strength, 
Triumph  and  fulness  of  fame, 
Sounding  about  the  world, 

An  inspiration  forever, 

Stirring  the  hearts  of  men, 

Shaping  their  end  and  tlieir  aim. 


VII. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  EPIMETHEUS. 

PANDORA. 

Left  to  myself  I wander  as  I will, 

And  as  my  fancy  leads  me,  through  this 
house, 

Nor  could  I ask  a dwelling  more  com- 
plete 

Were  I indeed  the  Goddess  that  he 
deems  me. 

No  mansion  of  Olympus,  framed  to  be 
The  habitation  of  the  Immortal  Gods, 
Can  be  more  beautiful.  And  this  is  mine 
And  more  than  this,  the  love  wherewith 
he  crowns  me. 

As  if  impelled  by  powers  invisible 
And  irresistible,  my  steps  return 
Unto  this  spacious  hall.  All  corridors 
And  passages  lead  hither,  and  all  doors 
But  open  into  it.  Yon  mysterious  chest 
Attracts  and  fascinates  me.  Would  I 
knew 

What  there  lies  hidden  ! But  the  oracle 


Forbids.  Ah  me  ! The  secret  then  is 
safe. 

So  would  it  be  if  it  •were  in  my  keeping. 

A crowd  of  shadowy  faces  from  the  mir- 
rors 

That  line  these  walls  are  watching  me. 
I dare  not 

Lift  up  the  lid.  A hundred  times  the 
act 

Would  be  repeated,  and  the  secret  seen 

By  twice  a hundred  incorporeal  eyes. 

She  walks  to  the  other  side  of  the  hall. 

My  feet  are  weary,  wandering  to  and 
fro, 

My  eyes  with  seeing  and  my  heart  with 
waiting. 

I will  lie  here  and  rest  till  he  returns, 

Who  is  my  dawn,  my  day,  my  Helios. 

Throws  herself  upon  a couch , and  falls 
asleep. 


^EPHYRUS. 

Come  from  thy  caverns  dark  and  deep, 
0 son  of  Erebus  and  Night  ; 

All  sense  of  hearing  and  of  sight 
Enfold  in  the  serene  delight 
And  quietude  of  sleep  ! 

Set  all  thy  silent  sentinels 
To  bar  and  guard  the  Ivory  Gate, 
And  keep  the  evil  dreams  of  fate 
And  falsehood  and  infernal  hate 
Imprisoned  in  their  cells. 

But  open  wide  the  Gate  of  Horn, 
Whence,  beautiful  as  planets,  rise 
The  dreams  of  truth,  with  starry  eyes, 
And  all  the  wondrous  prophecies 
And  visions  of  the  morn. 


CHORUS  OF  DREAMS  FROM  THE  IVORY 
GATE. 

Ye  sentinels  of  sleep, 

It  is  in  vain  ye  keep 
Your  drowsy  watch  before  the  Ivory 
Gate ; 

Though  closed  the  portal  seems, 
The  airy  feet  of  dreams 
Ye  cannot  thus  in  walls  incarcerate. 

We  phantoms  are  and  dreams 
Born  by  Tartarean  streams, 

As  ministers  of  the  infernal  powers  ; 


350 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


0 son  of  Erebus 
And  Night,  behold  ! we  thus 
Elude  your  watchful  warders  on  the 
towers  ! 

From  gloomy  Tartarus 
The  Fates  have  summoned  us 
To  whisper  in  her  ear,  who  lies  asleep, 

A tale  to  fan  the  fire 
Of  her  insane  desire 

To  know  a secret  that  the  Gods  would 
keep. 

This  passion,  in  their  ire, 

The  Gods  themselves  inspire, 

To  vex  mankind  with  evils  manifold, 

So  that  disease  and  pain 
O’er  the  whole  earth  may  reign, 
And  nevermore  return  the  Age  of  Gold. 

pandora,  waking. 

A voice  said  in  my  sleep  : “Do  not  de- 
lay : 

Do  not  delay ; the  golden  moments  fly  ! 
The  oracle  hath  forbidden  ; yet  not  thee 
Doth  it  forbid,  but  Epimetheus  only  ! ” 
I am  alone.  These  faces  in  the  mirrors 
Are  but  the  shadows  and  phantoms  of 
myself ; 

They  cannot  help  nor  hinder.  No  one 
sees  me, 

Save  the  all-seeing  Gods,  who,  knowing 
good 

And  knowing  evil,  have  created  me 
Such  as  1 am,  and  filled  me  with  desire 
Of  knowing  good  and  evil  like  them- 
selves. 

She  approaches  the  chest. 

I hesitate  no  longer.  Weal  or  woe, 

Or  life  or  death,  the  moment  shall  de- 
cide. 

She  lifts  the  lid.  A dense  mist  rises  from 
the  chest , and  fills  the  room.  Pandora 
falls  senseless  on  the  floor.  Storm  with- 
out. 

CHORUS  OF  DREAMS  FROM  THE  GATE 
OF  HORN. 

Yes,  the  moment  shall  decide  ! 

It  already  hath  decided  ; 

And  the  secret  once  confided 
To  the  keeping  of  the  Titan 
Now  is  flying  far  and  wide, 
Whispered,  told  on  every  side, 

To  disquiet  and  to  frighten. 


Fever  of  the  heart  and  brain, 
Sorrow,  pestilence,  and  pain, 

Moans  of  anguish^  maniac  laughter, 
All  the  evils  that  hereafter 
Shall  afflict  and  vex  mankind, 

All  into  the  air  have  risen 
From  the  chambers  of  their  prison  ; 
Only  Hope  remains  behind. 


VIII. 

IN  THE  GARDEN. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The  storm  is  past,  but  it  hath  left  be- 
hind it 

Ruin  and  desolation.  All  the  walks 
Are  strewn  with  shattered  boughs;  the 
birds  are  silent ; 

The  flowers,  downtrodden  by  the  wind, 
lie  dead ; 

The  swollen  rivulet  sobs  with  secret  pain  ; 
The  melancholy  reeds  whisper  together 
As  if  some  dreadful  deed  had  been  com- 
mitted 

They  dare  not  name,  and  all  the  air  is 
heavy 

With  an  unspoken  sorrow  ! Premoni- 
tions, 

Foreshadowings  of  some  terrible  disaster 
Oppress  my  heart.  Ye  Gods,  avert  the 
omen  ! 

pandora,  coining  from  the  house. 

0 Epimetheus,  I no  longer  dare 
To  lift  mine  eyes  to  thine,  nor  hear  thy 
voice, 

Being  no  longer  worthy  of  thy  love. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 

PANDORA. 

Forgive  me  not,  but  kill  me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 

PANDORA. 

I pray  for  death,  not  pardon. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 

PANDORA. 

I dare  not  speak  of  it. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA. 


351 


EPIMETHEUS. 

Thy  pallor  and  thy  silence  terrify  me  ! 

PANDORA. 

I have  brought  wrath  and  ruin  on  thy 
house ! 

My  heart  hath  braved  the  oracle  that 
guarded 

The  fatal  secret  from  us,  and  my  hand 
Lifted  the  lid  of  the  mysterious  chest ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Then  all  is  lost ! I am  indeed  undone. 

PANDORA. 

I pray  for  punishment,  and  not  for  par- 
don. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Mine  is  the  fault,  not  thine.  On  me 
shall  fall 

The  vengeance  of  the  Gods,  for  I betrayed 
Their  secret  when,  in  evil  hour,  I said 
It  was  a secret ; when,  in  evil  hour, 

I left  thee  here  alone  to  this  temptation. 
Why  did  I leave  thee  ? 

PANDORA. 

Why  didst  thou  return  ? 
Eternal  absence  would  have  been  to  me 
The  greatest  punishment.  To  be  left 
alone 

And  face  to  face  with  my  own  crime,  had 
been 

Just  retribution.  Upon  me,  ye  Gods, 
Let  all  your  vengeance  fall ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

On  thee  and  me. 
I do  not  love  thee  less  for  what  is  done, 
And  cannot  be  undone.  Thy  very  weak- 
ness 

Hath  brought  thee  nearer  to  me,  and 
henceforth 

My  love  will  have  a sense  of  pity  in  it, 
Making  it  less  a worship  than  before. 

PANDORA. 

Pity  me  not ; pity  is  degradation. 

Love  me  and  kill  me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Beautiful  Pandora ! 
Thou  art  a Goddess  still ! 

PANDORA. 

I am  a woman ; 
And  the  insurgent  demon  in  my  nature, 


That  made  me  brave  the  oracle,  revolts 
At  pity  and  compassion.  Let  me  die ; 
What  else  remains  for  me  ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Youth,  hope,  and  love  : 
To  build  a new  life  on  a ruined  life, 

To  make  the  future  fairer  than  the  past, 
And  make  the  past  appear  a troubled 
dream. 

Even  now  in  passing  through  the  garden 
walks 

Upon  the  ground  I saw  a fallen  nest 
Ruined  and  full  of  rain  ; and  over  me 
Beheld  the  uncomplaining  birds  already 
Busy  in  building  a new  habitation. 

PANDORA. 

Auspicious  omen ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

May  the  Eumenides 
Put  out  their  torches  and  behold  us  not, 
And  fling  away  their  whips  of  scorpions 
And  touch  us  not. 

PANDORA. 

Me  let  them  punish. 
Only  through  punishment  of  our  evil 
deeds, 

Only  through  suffering,  are  we  reconciled 
To  the  immortal  Gods  and  to  ourselves. 

CHORUS  OF  THE  EUMENIDES. 

Never  shall  souls  like  these 
Escape  the  Eumenides, 

The  daughters  dark  of  Acheron  and 
Night ! 

Unquenchsd  our  torches  glare, 

Our  scourges  in  the  air 
Send  forth  prophetic  sounds  before  they 
smite. 

Never  by  lapse  of  time 
The  soul  defaced  by  crime 
Into  its  former  self  returns  again ; 

For  every  guilty  deed 
Holds  in  itself  the  seed 
Of  retribution  and  undying  pain. 

Never  shall  be  the  loss 
Restored,  till  Helios 
Hath  purified  them  with  his  heavenly 
fires ; 

Then  what  was  lost  is  won, 

And  the  new  life  begun, 

Kin  died  with  nobler  passions  and  desires. 


352 


THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE. 


THE  HANGING  OE  THE  CRANE. 


i. 

The  lights  are  out,  and  gone  are  all  the 
guests 

That  thronging  came  with  merriment 
and  jests 

To  celebrate  the  Hanging  of  the  Crane 
111  the  new  house,  — into  the  night  are 
gone ; 

But  still  the  fire  upon  the  hearth  burns  on, 
And  I alone  remain. 

0 fortunate,  0 happy  day, 

When  a new  household  finds  its  place 
Among  the  myriad  homes  of  earth, 
Like  a new  star  just  sprung  to  birth, 
And  rolled  on  its  harmonious  way 
Into  the  boundless  realms  of  space  ! 

So  said  the  guests  in  speech  and  song, 
As  in  the  chimney,  burning  bright, 

We  hung  the  iron  crane  to-night, 

And  merry  was  the  feast  and  long. 

II. 

And  now  I sit  and  muse  on  what  may  be, 
And  in  my  vision  see,  or  seem  to  see, 
Through  floating  vapors  interfused 
with  light, 

Shapes  indeterminate,  that  gleam  and 
fade, 

As  shadows  passing  into  deeper  shade 
Sink  and  elude  the  sight. 

For  two  alone,  there  in  the  hall, 

Is  spread  the  table  round  and  small ; 
Upon  the  polished  silver  shine 
The  evening  lamps,  but,  more  divine, 
The  light  of  love  shines  over  all ; 

Of  love,  that  says  not  mine  and  thine, 
But  ours,  for  ours  is  thine  and  mine. 

They  want  no  guests,  to  come  between 
Their  tender  glances  like  a screen, 
And  tell  them  tales  of  land  and  sea, 
And  whatsoever  may  betide 
The  great,  forgotten  world  outside  ; 
They  want  no  guests ; they  needs  must 
be 

Each  other’s  own  best  company. 


III. 

The  picture  fades  ; as  at  a village  fair 
A showman's  views,  dissolving  into  air, 
Again  appear  transfigured  on  the 
screen, 

So  in  my  fancy  this  ; and  now  once  more, 
In  part  transfigured,  through  the  open 
door 

Appears  the  selfsame  scene. 

Seated,  I see  the  two  again, 

But  not  alone  ; they  entertain 
A little  angel  unaware, 

With  face  as  round  as  is  the  moon  ; 

A royal  guest  with  flaxen  hair, 

Who,  throned  upon  his  lofty  chair, 
Drums  on  the  table  with  his  spoon, 
Then  drops  it  careless  on  the  floor,  J 
To  grasp  at  things  unseen  before. 

Are  these  celestial  manners  ? these 
The  ways  that  win,  the  arts  that  please? 
Ah  yes  ; consider  well  the  guest, 

And  whatsoe’er  he  does  seems  best; 
He  ruleth  by  the  right  divine 
Of  helplessness,  so  lately  born 
In  purple  chambers  of  the  morn, 

As  sovereign  over  thee  and  thine. 

He  speaketh  not  ; and  yet  there  lies 
A conversation  in  his  eyes  ; 

The  golden  silence  of  the  Greek, 

The  gravest  wisdom  of  the  wise, 

Hot  spoken  in  language,  but  in  looks 
More  legible  than  printed  books, 

As  if  he  could  but  would  not  speak. 
And  now,  0 monarch  absolute, 

Thy  power  is  put  to  proof  ; for,  lo ! 
Resistless,  fathomless,  and  slow, 

The  nurse  comes  rustling  like  the  sea, 
And  pushes  back  thy  chair  and  thee, 
And  so  good  night  to  King  Canute. 


IY. 

As  one  who  walking  in  a forest  sees 
A lovely  landscape  through  the  parted 
trees, 


THE  HANGING 

Then  sees  it  not,  for  boughs  that  in- 
tervene ; 

Or  as  we  seethe  moon  sometimes  revealed 
Through  drifting  clouds,  and  then  again 
* concealed, 

So  I behold  the  scene. 

There  are  two  guests  at  table  now  ; 
The  king,  deposed  and  older  grown, 
No  longer  occupies  the  throne,  — 
The  crown  is  on  his  sister’s  brow  ; 

A Princess  from  the  Fairy  Isles, 

The  very  pattern  girl  of  girls, 

All  covered  and  embowered  in  curls, 
Rose-tinted  from  the  Isle  of  Flowers, 
And  sailing  with  soft,  silken  sails 
From  far-olf  Dreamland  into  ours. 
Above  their  bowls  with  rims  of  blue 
Four  azure  eyes  of  deeper  hue 
Are  looking,  dreamy  with  delight , 
Limpid  as  planets  that  emerge 
Above  the  ocean’s  rounded  verge, 
Soft- shining  through  the  summer 
night. 

Steadfast  they  gaze,  yet  nothing  see 
Beyond  the  horizon  of  their  bowls  ; 
Nor  care  they  for  the  world  that  rolls 
With  all  its  freight  of  troubled  souls 
Into  the  days  that  are  to  be. 


Y. 

fl-OAiN  the  tossing  boughs  shut  out  the 
scene, 

Again  the  drifting  vapors  intervene, 

And  the  moon’s  pallid  disk  is  hidden 
quite ; 

And  now  I see  the  table  wider  grown, 
As  round  a pebble  into  w'ater  thrown 
Dilates  a ring  of  light. 

I see  the  table  wider  grown, 

I see  it  garlanded  with  guests, 

As  if  fair  Ariadne’s  Crown 
Out  of  the  sky  had  fallen  down  ; 
Maidens  within  whose  tender  breasts 
A thousand  restless  hopes  and  fears, 
Forth  reaching  to  the  coming  years, 
Flutter  awhile,  then  quiet  lie, 

Like  timid  birds  that  fain  would  fly, 
But  do  not  dare  to  leave  their  nests ; — 
And  youths,  who  in  their  strength  elate 
Challenge  the  van  and  front  of  fate, 
Eager  as  champions  to  be 
In  the  divine  knight-errantry 
Of  youth,  that  travels  sea  and  land 
23 


OF  THE  CRANE.  353 

Seeking  adventures,  or  pursues, 
Through  cities,  and  through  solitudes 
Frequented  by  the  lyric  Muse, 

The  phantom  with  the  beckoning  hand, 
That  still  allures  and  still  eludes. 

0 sweet  illusions  of  the  brain ! 

0 sudden  thrills  of  lire  and  frost ! 

The  world  is  bright  while  ye  remain, 
And  dark  and  dead  when  ye  are  lost ! 


YI. 

The  meadow-brook,  that  seemeth  to 
stand  still, 

Quickens  its  current  as  it  nears  the  mill ; 
And  so  the  stream  of  Time  that  lin- 
gereth 

T n level  places,  and  so  dull  appears, 
Runs  with  a swifter  current  as  it  nears 
The  gloomy  mills  of  Death. 

And  now,  like  the  magician’s  scroll, 
That  in  the  owner’s  keeping  shrinks 
With  every  wish  he  speaks  or  thinks, 
Till  the  last  wish  consumes  the  whole, 
The  table  dwindles,  and  again 
I see  the  two  alone  remain. 

The  crown  of  stars  is  broken  in  parts  ; 
Its  jewels,  brighter  than  the  day. 
Have  one  by  one  been  stolen  away 
To  shine  in  other  homes  and  hearts. 
One  is  a wanderer  now  afar 
In  Ceylon  or  in  Zanzibar, 

Or  sunny  regions  of  Cathay  ; 

And  one  is  in  the  boisterous  camp 
Mid  clink  of  arms  and  horses’  tramp, 
And  battle’s  terrible  array. 

I see  the  patient  mother  read, 

With  aching  heart,  of  wrecks  that  float 
Disabled  on  those  seas  remote, 

Or  of  some  great  heroic  deed 
On  battle-fields,  where  thousands  bleed 
To  lift  one  hero  into  fame. 

Anxious  she  bends  her  graceful  head 
Above  these  chronicles  of  pain, 

And  trembles  with  a secret  dread 
Lest  there  among  the  drowned  or  slain 
She  find  the  one  beloved  name. 


YII. 

After  a day  of  cloud  and  wind  and  rain 
Sometimes  the  setting  sun  breaks  out 
again, 


354 


MOKITURI  SALUTAMUS. 


And,  touching  all  the  darksome  woods 
with  light, 

Smiles  on  the  fields,  until  they  laugh 
and  sing, 

Then  like  a ruby  from  the  horizon’s  ring 
Drops  down  into  the  night. 

What  see  I now  ? The  night  is  fair, 
The  storm  of  grief,  the  clouds  of  care, 
The  wind,  the  rain,  have  passed  away  ; 
The  lamps  are  lit,  the  fires  burn  bright, 
The  house  is  full  of  life  and  light : 

It  is  the  Golden  Wedding  day. 

The  guests  come  thronging  in  once  more, 
Quick  footsteps  sound  along  the  floor, 
The  trooping  children  crowd  the  stair, 
And  in  and  out  and  everywhere 
Flashes  along  the  corridor 
The  sunshine  of  their  golden  hair. 


On  the  round  table  in  the  hall 
Another  Ariadne’s  Crown 
Out  of  the  sky  hath  fallen  down ; 
More  than  one  Monarch  of  the  Moon 
Is  drumming  with  his  silver  spoon  ; 
The  light  of  love  shines  over  all. 

O fortunate,  0 happy  day  ! 

The  people  sing,  the  people  say. 

The  ancient  bridegroom  and  the  bride, 
Smiling  contented  and  serene 
Upon  the  blithe,  bewildering  scene, 
Behold,  well  pleased,  on  every  side 
Their  forms  and  features  multiplied, 
As  the  reflection  of  a light 
Between  two  burnished  mirrors  gleams, 
Or  lamps  upon  a bridge  at  night 
Stretch  on  and  on  before  the  sight, 
Till  the  long  vista  endless  seems. 


MORITURI  SALUTAMUS. 

POEM  FOR  THE  FIFTIETH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  1825 
IN  BOWDOIN  COLLEGE. 


Tempera  labuntur,  tacitisque  senescimus  annis, 

Et  fugiunt  freno  non  remorante  dies. 

Ovid,  Fastorum,  Lib.  vi. 


“ 0 CiESAR,  we  who  are  about  to  die 

Salute  you  ! ” was  the  gladiators’  cry 

In  the  arena,  standing  face  to  face 

With  death  and  with  the  Roman  popu- 
lace. 

0 ye  familiar  scenes,  — ye  groves  of 
pine, 

That  once  were  mine  and  are  no  longer 
mine,  — 

Thou  river,  widening  through  the  mead- 
ows green 

To  the  vast  sea,  so  near  and  yet  un- 
seen, — 

Ye  halls,  in  whose  seclusion  and  repose 

Phantoms  of  fame,  like  exhalations,  rose 

And  vanished,  — we  who  are  about  to 
die 

Salute  you  ; earth  and  air  and  sea  and 
sky, 

And  the  Imperial  Sun  that  scatters 
down 

His  sovereign  splendors  upon  grove  and 
town. 


Ye  do  not  answer  us  ! ye  do  not  hear ! 

We  are  forgotten  ; and  in  your  austere 

And  calm  indifference,  ye  little  care 

Whether  we  come  or  go,  or  whence  or 
where. 

What  passing  generations  fill  these 
halls, 

What  passing  voices  echo  from  these 
walls, 

Ye  heed  not ; we  are  only  as  the  blast, 

A moment  heard,  and  then  forever  past. 

Not  so  the  teachers  who  in  earlier  days 

Led  our  bewildered  feet  through  learn- 
ing’s maze  ; 

They  answer  us  — alas  ! what  have  I 
said  ? 

What  greetings  come  there  from  the 
voiceless  dead  ? 

What  salutation,  welcome,  or  reply  ?. 

What  pressure  from  the  hands  that  life- 
less lie  ? 

They  are  no  longer  here  ; they  all  are 
gone 


V 


MORITURI  SALUTAMUS.  355 


Into  the  land  of  shadows,  — all  save 
one. 

Honor  and  reverence,  and  the  good  re- 
pute 

That  follows  faithful  service  as  its  fruit, 
Be  unto  him,  whom  living  we  salute. 

The  great  Italian  poet,  when  he  made 
His  dreadful  journey  to  the  realms  of 
shade, 

Met  there  the  old  instructor  of  his 
youth, 

And  cried  in  tones  of  pity  and  of  ruth  : 
“ 0,  never  from  the  memory  of  my 
heart 

Your  dear,  paternal  image  shall  depart, 
Who  while  on  earth,  ere  yet  by  death 
surprised, 

Taught  me  how  mortals  are  immortal- 
ized ; 

How  grateful  am  I for  that  patient  care 
All  my  life  long  my  language  shall  de- 
clare.” 

To-day  we  make  the  poet’s  words  our 
own, 

And  utter  them  in  plaintive  undertone ; 
Nor  to  the  living  only  be  they  said, 

But  to  the  other  living  called  the  dead, 
Whose  dear,  paternal  images  appear 
Not  wrapped  in  gloom,  but  robed  in  sun- 
shine here  ; 

Whose  simple  lives,  complete  and  with- 
out flaw, 

Were  part  and  parcel  of  great  Nature’s 
law  ; 

Who  said  not  to  their  Lord,  as  if  afraid, 
“ Here  is  thy  talent  in  a napkin  laid,” 
But  labored  in  their  sphere,  as  men  who 
live 

In  the  delight  that  work  alone  can  give. 
Peace  be  to  them  ; eternal  peace  and  rest, 
And  the  fulfilment  of  the  great  behest : 
“Ye  have  been  faithful  over  a few 
things, 

Over  ten  cities  shall  ye  reign  as  kings.” 

And  ye  who  fill  the  places  we  once  filled, 
And  follow  in  the  furrows  that  we  tilled, 
Young  men,  whose  generous  hearts  are 
beating  high, 

We  who  are  old,  and  are  about  to  die, 
Salute  you  ; hail  you ; take  your  hands 
in  ours, 

And  crown  you  with  our  welcome  as 
with  flowers  ! 


How  beautiful  is  youth  ! how  bright  it 
gleams 

With  its  illusions,  aspirations,  dreams ! 
Book  of  Beginnings,  Story  without  End, 
Each  maid  a heroine,  and  each  man  a 
friend  ! 

Aladdin’s  Lamp,  and  Fortunatus’  Purse, 
That  holds  the  treasures  of  the  universe ! 
All  possibilities  are  in  its  hands, 

No  danger  daunts  it,  and  no  foe  with- 
stands ; 

In  its  sublime  audacity  of  faith, 

“ Be  thou  removed  ! ” it  to  the  moun- 
tain saith, 

And  with  ambitious  feet,  secure  and 
proud, 

Ascends  the  ladder  leaning  on  the 
cloud ! 

As  ancient  Priam  at  the  Scsean  gate 
Sat  on  the  walls  of  Troy  in  regal  state 
With  the  old  men,  too  old  and  weak  to 
fight, 

Chirping  like  grasshoppers  in  their  de- 
light 

To  see  the  embattled  hosts,  with  spear 
and  shield, 

Of  Trojans  and  Achaians  in  the  field  ; 
So  from  the  snowy  summits  of  our  years 
We  see  you  in  the  plain,  as  each  appears, 
And  question  of  you  ; asking,  “Who  is 
he 

That  towers  above  the  others  ? Which 
may  be 

Atreides,  Menelaus,  Odysseus, 

Ajax  the  great,  or  bold  Idomeneus  ?” 

Let  him  not  boast  who  puts  his  armor 
on 

As  he  who  puts  it  off,  the  battle  done. 
Study  yourselves  ; and  most  of  all  note 
well 

Wherein  kind  Nature  meant  you  to 
excel. 

Not  every  blossom  ripens  into  fruit; 
Minerva,  the  in ven tress  of  the  flute, 
Flung  it  aside,  when  she  her  face  sur- 
veyed 

Distorted  in  a fountain  as  she  played ; 
The  unlucky  Marsyas  found  it,  and  his 
fate 

Was  one  to  make  the  bravest  hesitate. 

Write  on  your  doors  the  saying  wise  and 
old, 

“Be  bold  ! be  bold  !”  and  everywhere 
— “ Be  bold  ; 


356  MORITURI 

Be  not  too  bold ! ” Yet  better  the  ex- 

cess 

Than  the  defect ; better  the  more  than 
less  ; 

Better  like  Hector  in  the  field  to  die, 
Than  like  a perfumed  Paris  turn  and  fly. 

And  now,  my  classmates  ; ye  remaining 
few 

That  number  not  the  half  of  those  we 
knew, 

Ye,  against  whose  familiar  names  not 
yet 

The  fatal  asterisk  of  death  is  set, 

Ye  I salute  ! The  horologe  of  Time 
Strikes  the  half-century  with  a solemn 
chime, 

And  summons  us  together  once  again, 
The  joy  of  meeting  not  unmixed  with  pain. 

Where  are  the  others  ? Voices  from  the 
deep 

Caverns  of  darkness  answer  me  : “They 
sleep  ! ” 

I name  no  names  ; instinctively  I feel 
Each  at  some  well- remembered  grave 
will  kneel, 

And  from  the  inscription  wipe  the  weeds 
and  moss, 

For  every  heart  best  knoweth  its  own 
loss. 

I see  their  scattered  gravestones  gleam- 
ing white 

Through  the  pale  dusk  of  the  impend- 
ing night ; 

O’er  all  alike  the  impartial  sunset 
throws 

Its  golden  lilies  mingled  with  the  rose  ; 
We  give  to  each  a tender  thought,  and 
pass 

Out  of  the  graveyards  with  their  tangled 
grass, 

Unto  these  scenes  frequented  by  our  feet 
When  we  were  young,  and  life  was  fresh 
and  sweet. 

What  shall  I say  to  you  ? What  can  I 
say 

Better  than  silence  is  ? When  I survey 
This  throng  of  faces  turned  to  meet  my 
own, 

Friendly  and  fair,  and  yet  to  me  un- 
known, 

Transformed  the  very  landscape  seems 
to  be  ; 

It  is  the  same,  yet  not  the  same  to  me. 


SALUTAMUS. 

So  many  memories  crowd  upon  my  brain, 
So  many  ghosts  are  in  the  wooded  plain, 
I fain  would  steal  away,  with  noiseless 
tread, 

As  from  a house  where  some  one  lieth 
dead. 

I cannot  go  ; — I pause  ; — I hesitate ; 
My  feet  reluctant  linger  at  the  gate ; 

As  one  who  struggles  in  a troubled 
dream 

To  speak  and  cannot,  to  myself  I seem. 

Vanish  the  dream  ! Vanish  the  idle 
fears  ! 

Vanish  the  rolling  mists  of  fifty  years  ! 
Whatever  time  or  space  may  intervene, 

1 will  not  be  a stranger  in  this  scene. 
Here  every  doubt,  all  indecision,  ends  ; 
Hail,  my  companions,  comrades,  class- 
mates, friends  ! 

Ah  me  ! the  fifty  years  since  last  we  met 
Seem  to  me  fifty  folios  bound  and  set 
By  Time,  the  great  transcriber,  on  his 
shelves, 

Wherein  are  written  the  histories  of 
ourselves. 

What  tragedies,  what  comedies,  are 
there ; 

What  joy  and  grief,  what  rapture  and 
despair  ! 

What  chronicles  of  triumph  and  defeat, 
Of  struggle,  and  temptation,  and  retreat! 
What  records  of  regrets,  and  doubts,  and 
fears  ! 

What  pages  blotted,  blistered  by  our 
tears  ! 

What  lovely  landscapes  on  the  margin 
shine, 

What  sweet,  angelic  faces,  what  divine 
And  holy  images  of  love  and  trust, 
Undimmed  by  age,  unsoiled  by  damp  or 
dust  ! 

Whose  hand  shall  dare  to  open  and  ex- 
plore 

These  volumes,  closed  and  clasped  for- 
evermore ? 

Not  mine.  With  reverential  feet  I pass  ; 
I hear  a voice  that  cries,  “Alas  ! alas  ! 
Whatever  hath  been  written  shall  re- 
main, 

Nor  be  erased  nor  written  o’er  again  ; 
The  unwritten  only  still  belongs  to 
thee  : 

Take  heed,  and  ponder  well  what  that 
shall  be.” 


MORITURI  SALUTAMUS.  357 


As  children  frightened  by  a thunder- 
cloud 

Are  reassured  if  some  one  reads  aloud 
A tale  of  wonder,  with  enchantment 
fraught, 

Or  wild  adventure,  that  diverts  their 
thought, 

Let  me  endeavor  with  a tale  to  chase 
The  gathering  shadows  of  the  time  and 
place, 

And  banish  what  we  all  too  deeply  feel 
Wholly  to  say,  or  wholly  to  conceal. 

In  mediaeval  Rome,  I know  not  where, 
There  stood  an  image  with  its  arm  in 
air, 

And  on  its  lifted  finger,  shining  clear, 

A golden  ring  with  the  device,  “Strike 
here  ! ” 

Greatly  the  people  wondered,  though 
none  guessed 

The  meaning  that  these  words  but  half 
expressed, 

Until  a learned  clerk,  who  at  noonday 
With  downcast  eyes  was  passing  on  his 
way, 

Paused,  and  observed  the  spot,  and 
marked  it  well, 

Whereon  the  shadow  of  the  finger  fell ; 
And,  coming  back  at  midnight,  delved, 
and  found 

A secret  stairway  leading  under  ground. 
Down  this  he  passed  into  a spacious 
hall, 

Lit  by  a flaming  jewel  on  the  wall ; 

And  opposite  in  threatening  attitude 
With  bow  and  shaft  a brazen  statue 
stood. 

Upon  its  forehead,  like  a coronet, 

Were  these  mysterious  words  of  menace 
set : 

“ That  which  I am,  I am  ; my  fatal  aira 
None  can  escape,  not  even  yon  lumi- 
nous flame  ! ” 

Midway  the  hall  was  a fair  table  placed, 
With  cloth  of  gold,  and  golden  cups  en- 
chased 

With  rubies,  and  the  plates  and  knives 
were  gold, 

And  gold  the  bread  and  viands  mani- 
fold. 

Around  it,  silent,  motionless,  and  sad, 
Were  seated  gallant  knight3  in  armor 
clad, 

And  ladies  beautiful  with  plume  and 
zone, 


But  they  were  stone,  their  hearts  within 
were  stone  ; 

And  the  vast  hall  was  filled  in  every  part 
With  silent  crowds,  stony  in  face  and 
heart. 

Long  at  the  scene,  bewildered  and 
amazed 

The  trembling  clerk  in  speechless  won- 
der gazed  ; 

Then  from  the  table,  by  his  greed  made 
_ bold, 

He  seized  a goblet  and  a knife  of  gold, 
And  suddenly  from  their  seats  the  guests 
upsprang, 

The  vaulted  ceiling  with  loud  clamors 
rang, 

The  archer  sped  his  arrow,  at  their  call, 
Shattering  the  lambent  jewel  on  the 
wall, 

And  all  was  dark  around  and  overhead ; — 
Stark  on  the  floor  the  luckless  clerk  lay 
dead  ! 

The  writer  of  this  legend  then  records 
Its  ghostly  application  in  these  words  : 
The  image  is  the  Adversary  old, 

Whose  beckoning  finger  points  to  realms 
of  gold ; 

Our  lusts  and  passions  are  the  down- 
ward stair 

That  leads  the  soul  from  a diviner  air  ; 
The  archer,  Death ; the  flaming  jewel. 
Life  ; 

Terrestrial  goods,  the  goblet  and  the 
knife  ; 

The  knights  and  ladies,  all  whose  flesh 
and  bone 

By  avarice  have  been  hardened  into 
stone  ; 

The  clerk,  the  scholar  whom  the  love 
of  pelf 

Tempts  from  his  books  and  from  his 
nobler  self. 

The  scholar  and  the  world  ! The  end- 
less strife, 

The  discord  in  the  harmonies  of  life  ! 
The  love  of  learning,  the  sequestered 
nooks, 

And  all  the  sweet  serenity  of  books  ; 

The  market-place,  the  eager  love  of  gain, 
Whose  aim  is  vanity,  and  whose  end  is 
pain  ! 

But  why,  you  ask  me,  should  this  tale  be 
told 


358 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


To  men  grown  old,  or  who  are  growing 
old? 

It  is  too  late  ! Ah,  nothing  is  too  late 
Till  the  tired  heart  shall  cease  to  palpi- 
tate. 

Cato  learned  Greek  at  eighty  ; Sophocles 
Wrote  his  grand  CEdipus,  and  Simonides 
Bore  off  the  prize  of  verse  from  his  com- 
peers, 

When  each  had  numbered  more  than 
fourscore  years, 

And  Theophrastus,  at  fourscore  and  ten, 
Had  but  begun  his  Characters  of  Men 
Chaucer,  at  Woodstock  with  the  night- 
ingales, 

At  sixty  wrote  the  Canterbury  Tales  ; 
Goethe  at  Weimar,  toiling  to  the  last, 
Completed  Faust  when  eighty  years  were 
past. 

These  are  indeed  exceptions ; but  they 
show 

How  far  the  gulf-stream  of  our  youth 
may  flow 

Into  the  arctic  regions  of  our  lives, 
Where  little  else  than  life  itself  survives. 

As  the  barometer  foretells  the  storm 
While  still  the  skies  are  clear,  the 
weather  warm, 

So  something  in  us,  as  old  age  draws 
near, 

Betrays  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere. 
The  nimble  mercury,  ere  we  are  aware, 
Descends  the  elastic  ladder  of  the  air  ; 
The  telltale  blood  in  artery  and  vein 


Sinks  from  its  higher  levels  in  the  brain  ; 

Whatever  poet,  orator,  or  sage 

May  say  of  it,  old  age  is  still  old  age. 

It  is  the  waning,  not  the  crescent  moon  ; 
The  dusk  of  evening,  not  the  blaze  of 
noon : 

It  is  not  strength,  but  weakness ; not  de- 
sire, 

But  its  surcease  ; not  the  fierce  heat  of 
fire, 

The  burning  and  consuming  element, 

But  that  of  ashes  and  of  embers  spent, 

In  which  some  living  sparks  we  still 
discern, 

Enough  to  warm,  but  not  enough  to  burn. 

What  then  ? Shall  we  sit  idly  down 
and  say 

The  night  hath  come  ; it  is  no  longer  day  ? 
The  night  hath  not  yet  come  ; we  are 
not  quite  • 

Cut  off  from  labor  by  the  failing  light ; 
Something  remains  for  us  to  do  or  dare  ; 
Even  the  oldest  tree  some  fruit  may  bear ; 
Not  CEdipus  Coloneus,  or  Greek  Ode, 

Or  tales  of  pilgrims  that  one  morning  rode 
Out  of  the  gateway  of  the  Tabard  Inn,  ' 
But  other  something,  would  we  but  be- 

gin; 

For  age  is  opportunity  no  less 
Than  youth  itself,  though  in  another  ; 
dress, 

And  as  the  evening  tw’ilight  fades  away 
The  sky  is  filled  with  stars,  invisible  by 
day. 


i 

i 

j 

BIEDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

i 

FLIGHT  THE  FOURTH. 


CHARLES  SUMNER. 

Garlands  upon  his  grave, 

And  flowers  upon  his  hearse, 
And  to  the  tender  heart  and  brave 
The  tribute  of  this  verse. 

His  was  the  troubled  life, 

The  conflict  and  the  pain, 

The  grief,  the  bitterness  of  strife, 
The  honor  without  stain. 


Like  Winkelried,  he  took 
Into  his  manly  breast 
The  sheaf  of  hostile  spears,  and  broke 
A path  for  the  oppressed. 

Then  from  the  fatal  field 
Upon  a nation’s  heart 
Borne  like  a warrior  on  his  shield  ! — 
So  should  the  brave  depart. 

Death  takes  us  by  surprise, 

And  stays  our  hurrying  feet ; 


CADENABBIA. 


359 


The  great  design  unfinished  lies, 

Our  lives  are  incomplete. 

But  in  the  dark  unknown 
Perfect  their  circles  seem, 

Even  as  a bridge’s  arch  of  stone 
Is  rounded  in  the  stream. 

Alike  are  life  and  death, 

When  life  in  death  survives, 

And  the  uninterrupted  breath 
Inspires  a thousand  lives. 

Were  a star  quenched  on  high, 

For  ages  would  its  light, 

Still  travelling  downward  from  the  sky, 
Shine  on  our  mortal  sight. 

So  when  a great  man  dies, 

For  years  beyond  our  ken, 

The  light  he  leaves  behind  him  lies 
Upon  the  paths  of  men. 


TRAVELS  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

The  ceaseless  rain  is  falling  fast, 

And  yonder  gilded  vane, 

Immovable  for  three  days  past, 

Points  to  the  misty  main. 

It  drives  me  in  upon  myself 
And  to  the  fireside  gleams, 

To  pleasant  books  that  crowd  my  shelf, 
And  still  more  pleasant  dreams. 

I read  whatever  bards  have  sung 
Of  lands  beyond  the  sea, 

And  the  bright  days  when  I was  young 
Come  thronging  back  to  me. 

In  fancy  I can  hear  again 
The  Alpine  torrent’s  roar, 

The  mule-bells  on  the  hills  of  Spain, 
The  sea  at  Elsinore. 

I see  the  convent’s  gleaming  wall 
Rise  from  its  groves  of  pine, 

And  towers  of  old  cathedrals  tall, 

And  castles  by  the  Rhine. 

I journey  on  by  park  and  spire, 

Beneath  centennial  trees, 

Through  fields  with  poppies  all  on  fire, 
And  gleams  of  distant  seas. 


I fear  no  more  the  dust  and  heat, 

No  more  I feel  fatigue, 

While  journeying  with  another’s  feet 
O’er  many  a lengthening  league. 

Let  others  traverse  sea  and  land,l 
And  toil  through  various  climes, 

I turn  the  world  round  with  my  hand 
Reading  these  poets’  rhymes. 

From  them  I learn  whatever  lies 
Beneath  each  changing  zone, 

And  see,  when  looking  with  their  eyes, 
Better  than  with  mine  own. 


CADENABBIA. 

LAKE  OF  COMO. 

No  sound  of  wheels  or  hoof-beat  breaks 
The  silence  of  the  summer  day, 

As  by  the  loveliest  of  all  lakes 
I while  the  idle  hours  away. 

I pace  the  leafy  colonnade 

Where  level  branches  of  the  plane 
Above  me  weave  a roof  of  shade 
Impervious  to  the  sun  and  rain. 

At  times  a sudden  rush  of  air 
Flutters  the  lazy  leaves  o’erhead, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine  toss  and  flare 
Like  torches  down  the  path  I tread. 

By  Somariva’s  garden  gate 

I make  the  marble  stairs  my  seat, 
And  hear  the  water,  as  I wait, 

Lapping  the  steps  beneath  my  feet. 

The  undulation  sinks  and  swells 
Along  the  stony  parapets, 

And  far  away  the  floating  bells 
Tinkle  upon  the  fisher’s  nets. 

Silent  and  slow,  by  tower  and  town 
The  freighted  barges  come  and  go, 
Their  pendent  shadows  gliding  down 
By  town  and  tower  submerged  below. 

The  hills  sweep  upward  from  the  shore, 
With  villas  scattered  one  by  one 
Upon  their  wooded  spurs,  and  lower 
Bellaggio  blazing  in  the  sun. 

And  dimly  seen,  a tangled  mass 

Of  walls  and  woods,  of  light  and  shade, 


360 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


Stands  beckoning  up  the  Stelvio  Pass 
Varenna  with  its  white  cascade. 

I ask  myself,  Is  this  a dream  ? 

Will  it  all  vanish  into  air  ? 

Is  there  a land  of  such  supreme 
And  perfect  beauty  anywhere  ? 

Sweet  vision  ! Do  not  fade  away  ; 

Linger  until  my  heart  shall  take 
Into  itself  the  summer  day, 

And  all  the  beauty  of  the  lake. 

Linger  until  upon  my  brain 

Is  stamped  an  image  of  the  scene, 
Then  fade  into  the  air  again, 

And  be  as  if  thou  hadst  not  been. 


MONTE  CASSINO. 

TERRA  DI  LAVORO. 

Beautiful  valley  ! through  whose  ver- 
dant meads 

Unheard  the  Garigliano  glides  along ; — 

The  Liris,  nurse  of  rushes  and  of  reeds, 
The  river  taciturn  of  classic  song. 

The  Land  of  Labor  and  the  Land  of  Rest, 
Where  mediaeval  towns  are  white  on  all 

The  hillsides,  and  where  every  moun- 
tain’s crest 

Is  an  Etrurian  or  a Roman  wall. 

There  is  Alagna,  where  Pope  Boniface 
Was  dragged  with  contumely  from  his 
throne  ; 

Sciarra  Colonna,  was  that  day’s  disgrace 
The  Pontiff’s  only,  or  in  part  thine 
own  ? 

There  is  Ceprano,  where  a renegade 
Was  each  Apulian,  as  great  Dante 
saith, 

When  Manfred  by  his  men-at-arms  be- 
trayed 

Spurred  on  to  Benevento  and  to  death. 

There  is  Aquinum,  the  old  Yolscian  town, 
Where  Juvenal  was  born,  whose  lurid 
light 

Still  hovers  o’er  his  birthplace  like  the 
crown 

Of  splendor  seen  o’er  cities  in  the  night. 


Doubled  the  splendor  is,  that  in  its 

streets 

The  Angelic  Doctor  as  a school-boy 
played, 

And  dreamed  perhaps  the  dreams,  that 
he  repeats 

In  ponderous  folios  for  scholastics  made. 

And  there,  uplifted,  like  a passing  cloud 
That  pauses  on  a mountain  summit 
high, 

Monte  Cassino’s  convent  rears  its  proud 
And  venerable  walls  against  the  sky. 

Well  I remember  how  on  foot  I climbed 
The  stony  pathway  leading  to  its  gate ; 

Above,  the  convent  bells  for  vespers 
chimed, 

Below,  the  darkening  town  grew  des- 
olate. 

Well  I remember  the  low  arch  and  dark, 
The  court-yard  with  its  well,  the  ter- 
race wide, 

F rom  which  far  down  the  valley,  like  a 
park 

Veiled  in  the  evening  mists,  wTas  dim 
descried. 

The  day  wras  dying,  and  with  feeble 
hands 

Caressed  the  mountain-tops  ; the  vales 
between 

Darkened  ; the  river  in  the  meadow- 
lands 

Sheathed  itself  as  a sword,  and  was 
not  seen. 

The  silence  of  the  place  was  like  a sleep, 
So  full  of  rest  it  seemed  ; each  passing 
tread 

Was  a reverberation  from  the  deep 
Recesses  of  the  ages  that  are  dead. 

For,  more  than  thirteen  centuries  ago, 
Benedict  fleeing  from  the  gates  of 
Rome, 

A youth  disgusted  with  its  vice  and  woe, 
Sought  in  these  mountain  solitudes  a 
home. 

He  founded  here  his  Convent  and  his 
Rule 

Of  pra}^er  and  work,  and  counted 
work  as  prayer ; 

The  pen  became  a clarion,  and  his  school 
Flamed  like  a beacon  in  the  midnight 
air. 


AMALFI. 


361 


What  though  Boccaccio,  in  his  reckless 
way, 

Mocking  the  lazy  brotherhood,  de- 
plores 

The  illuminated  manuscripts,  that  lay 
Tom  and  neglected  on  the  dusty  floors  ? 

Boccaccio  was  a novelist,  a child 
Of  fancy  and  of  fiction  at  the  best  ! 

This  the  urbane  librarian  said,  and  smiled 
Incredulous,  as  at  some  idle  jest. 

Upon  such  themes  as  these,  with  one 
young  friar 

I sat  conversing  late  into  the  night, 

Till  in  its  cavernous  chimney  the  wood- 
fire 

Had  burnt  its  heart  out  like  an  ancho- 
rite. 

And  then  translated,  in  my  convent  cell, 
Myself  yet  not  myself,  in  dreams  I lay , 

And,  as  a.  monk  who  hears  the  matin  bell, 
Started  from  sleep  ; already  it  was  day. 

From  the  high  window  I beheld  the  scene 
On  which  Saint  Benedict  so  oft  had 
gazed,  — 

The  mountains  and  the  valley  in  the 
sheen 

Of  the  bright  sun,  — and  stood  as  one 
amazed. 

Gray  mists  were  rolling,  rising,  vanish- 
ing ; 

The  woodlands  glistened  with  their 
jewelled  crowns  ; 

Far  off  the  mellow  bells  began  to  ring 
F or  matins  in  the  half-awakened  towns. 

The  conflict  of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
The  ideal  and  the  actual  in  our  life, 

As  on  a field  of  battle  held  me  fast, 
Where  this  world  and  the  next  world 
were  at  strife. 

For,  as  the  valley  from  its  sleep  awoke, 

I saw  the  iron  horses  of  the  steam 

Toss  to  the  morning  air  their  plumes  of 
smoke, 

And  woke,  as  one  awaketh  from  a 
dream. 

AMALFI. 

Sweet  the  memory  is  to  me 

Of  a land  beyond  the  sea, 

Where  the  waves  and  mountains  meet, 


Where,  amid  her  mulberry-trees 
Sits  Amalfi  in  the  heat, 

Bathing  ever  her  white  feet 
In  the  tideless  summer  seas. 

In  the  middle  of  the  town, 

From  its  fountains  in  the  hills, 
Tumbling  through  the  narrow  gorge, 
The  Canneto  rushes  down, 

Turns  the  great  wheels  of  the  mills, 
Lifts  the  hammers  of  the  forge. 

’T  is  a stairway,  not  a street, 

That  ascends  the  deep  ravine, 

Where  the  torrent  leaps  between 
Rocky  walls  that  almost  meet. 

Toiling  up  from  stair  to  stair 
Peasant  girls  their  burdens  bear  ; 
Sunburnt,  daughters  of  the  soil, 

Stately  figures  tall  and  straight, 

What  inexorable  fate 
Dooms  them  to  this  life  of  toil  ? 

Lord  of  vineyards  and  of  lands, 

Far  above  the  convent  stands. 

On  its  terraced  walk  aloof 
Leans  a monk  with  folded  hands, 
Placid,  satisfied,  serene, 

Looking  down  upon  the  scene 
Over  wall  and  red-tiled  roof  ; 
Wondering  unto  what  good  end 
All  this  toil  and  traffic  tend, 

And  why  all  men  cannot  be 
Free  from  care  and  free  from  pain, 

And  the  sordid  love  of  gain, 

And  as  indolent  as  he. 

Where  are  now  the  freighted  barks 
From  the  marts  of  east  and  west  ? 
Where  the  knights  in  iron  sarks 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land, 

Glove  of  steel  upon  the  hand, 

Cross  of  crimson  on  the  breast  ? 

Where  the  pomp  of  camp  and  court  ? 
Where  the  pilgrims  with  their  prayers  ? 
Where  the  merchants  with  their  wares, 
And  their  gallant  brigantines 
Sailing  safely  into  port 
Chased  by  corsair  Algerines  ? 

Vanished  like  a fleet  of  cloud, 

Like  a passing  trumpet-blast, 

Are  those  splendors  of  the  past, 

And  the  commerce  and  the  crowd  ! 
Fathoms  deep  beneath  the  seas 
Lie  the  ancient  wharves  and  quays, 
Swallowed  by  the  engulfing  waves  ; 


362 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


Silent  streets  and  vacant  halls, 
Ruined  roofs  and  towers  and  walls ; 
Hidden  from  all  mortal  eyes 
Deep  the  sunken  city  lies  : 

Even  cities  have  their  graves  ! 

This  is  an  enchanted  land  ! 

Round  the  headlands  far  away 
Sweeps  the  blue  Salernian  bay 
With  its  sickle  of  white  sand  : 
Further  still  and  furthermost 
On  the  dim  discovered  coast 
Paistum  with  its  ruins  lies, 

And  its  roses  all  in  bloom 
Seem  to  tinge  the  fatal  skies 
Of  that  lonely  land  of  doom. 

On  liis  terrace,  high  in  air, 

Nothing  doth  the  good  monk  care 
For  such  worldly  themes  as  these. 
From  the  garden  just  below 
Little  puffs  of  perfume  blow, 

And  a sound  is  in  his  ears 
Of  the  murmur  of  the  bees 
In  the  shining  chestnut-trees ; 
Nothing  else  he  heeds  or  hears. 

All  the  landscape  seems  to  swoon 
In  the  happy  afternoon ; 

Slowly  o’er  his  senses  creep 
The  encroaching  waves  of  sleep, 
And  he  sinks  as  sank  the  town, 
Unresisting,  fathoms  down, 

Into  caverns  cool  and  deep  ! 

Walled  about  with  drifts  of  snow, 
Hearing  the  fierce  north-wind  blow, 
Seeing  all  the  landscape  white, 

And  the  river  cased  in  ice, 

Comes  this  memory  of  delight, 
Comes  this  vision  unto  me 
Of  a long-lost  Paradise 
In  the  land  beyond  the  sea. 


THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS. 

Up  soared  the  lark  into  the  air, 

A shaft  of  song,  a winged  prayer, 

As  if  a soul,  released  from  pain, 

Were  flying  back  to  heaven  again. 

St.  Francis  heard  ; it  was  to  him 
An  emblem  of  the  Seraphim  ; 

The  upward  motion  of  the  fire, 

The  light,  the  heat,  the  heart’s  desire. 


Around  Assisi’s  convent  gate 
The  birds,  God’s  poor  who  cannot  wait, 
F rom  moor  and  mere  and  darksome  wood 
Came  flocking  for  their  dole  of  food. 

“0  brother  birds,”  St.  Francis  said, 
“Ye  come  to  me  and  ask  for  bread, 

But  not  with  bread  alone  to-day 
Shall  ye  be  fed  and  sent  away. 

“Ye  shall  be  fed,  ye  happy  birds, 

With  manna  of  celestial  words  ; 

Not  mine,  though  mine  they  seem  to  be, 
Not  mine,  though  they  be  spoken  through 
me. 

“ 0,  doubly  are  ye  bound  to  praise 
The  great  Creator  in  your  lays  ; 

He  giveth  you  your  plumes  of  down, 
Your  crimson  hoods,  your  cloaks  of  brown. 

“ He  giveth  you  your  wings  to  fly 
And  breathe  a purer  air  on  high, 

And  careth  for  you  everywhere, 

Who  for  yourselves  so  little  care  ! ” 

With  flutter  of  swift  wings  and  songs 
Together  rose  the  feathered  throngs, 
And  singing  scattered  far  apart  ; 

Deep  peace  was  in  St.  Francis’  heart. 

He  knew  not  if  the  brotherhood 
His  homily  had  understood  ; 

He  only  knew  that  to  one  ear 
The  meaning  of  his  words  was  clear. 


BELISARIUS. 

I am  poor  and  old  and  blind  ; 

The  sun  burns  me,  and  the  wind 

Blows  through  the  city  gate  f 
And  covers  me  with  dust 
From  the  wheels  of  the  august. 
Justinian  the  Great. 

It  was  for  him  I chased 

The  Persians  o’er  wild  and  waste, 

As  General  of  the  East ; 

Night  after  night  I lay 
In  their  camps  of  yesterday  ; 

Their  forage  was  my  feast. 

For  him,  with  sails  of  red, 

And  torches  at  mast-head, 

Piloting  the  great  fleet, 


SONGO  RIVER. 


363 


I swept  the  Afric  coasts 
And  scattered  the  Vandal  hosts, 
Like  dust  in  a windy  street. 

For  him  I won  again 
The  Ausonian  realm  and  reign, 
Rome  and  Parthenope  ; 

And  all  the  land  was  mine 
From  the  summits  of  Apennine 
To  the  shores  of  either  sea. 

For  him,  in  my  feeble  age, 

I .dared  the  battle’s  rage, 

To  save  Byzantium’s  state, 
"When  the  tents  of  Zabergan, 

Like  snow-drifts  overran 

The  road  to  the  Golden  Gate. 

And  for  this,  for  this,  behold  ! 
Infirm  and  blind  and  old, 

With  gray,  uncovered  head, 
Beneath  the  very  arch 
Of  my  triumphal  march, 

I stand  and  beg  my  bread  ! 

Methinks  I still  can  hear, 
Sounding  distinct  and  near. 

The  Vandal  monarch’s  cry, 

As,  captive  and  disgraced, 

With  majestic  step  he  paced,  — 

“ All,  all  is  Vanity  ! ” 

Ah  ! vainest  of  all  things 
Is  the  gratitude  of  kings  ; 

The  plaudits  of  the  crowd 
Are  but  the  clatter  of  feet 
At  midnight  in  the  street, 

Hollow  and  restless  and  loud. 

But  the  bitterest  disgrace 
Is  to  see  forever  the  face 

Of  the  Monk  of  Ephesus  ! 

The  unconquerable  will 
This,  too,  can  bear  ; — I still 
Am  Belisarius  ! 


SONGO  RIVER. 

Nowhere  such  a devious  stream, 
Save  in  fancy  or  in  dream, 


Winding  slow  through  busli  and  brake 
Links  together  lake  and  lake. 

Walled  with  woods  or  sandy  shelf, 
Ever  doubling  on  itself 
Flows  the  stream,  so  still  and  slow 
That  it  hardly  seems  to  how. 

Never  errant  knight  of  old, 

Lost  in  woodland  or  on  wold, 

Such  a winding  path  pursued 
Through  the  sylvan  solitude. 

Never  school-boy  in  his  quest 
After  hazel-nut  or  nest, 

Through  the  forest  in  and  out 
Wandered  loitering  thus  about. 

In  the  mirror  of  its  tide 
Tangled  thickets  on  each  side 
Hang  inverted,  and  between 
Floating  cloud  or  sky  serene. 

Swift  or  swallow  on  the  wing 
Seems  the  only  living  thing, 

Or  the  loon,  that  laughs  and  flies 
Down  to  those  reflected  skies. 

Silent  stream  ! thy  Indian  name 
Unfamiliar  is  to  fame  ; 

For  thou  liidest  here  alone, 

Well  content  to  be  unknown. 

But  thy  tranquil  waters  teach 
Wisdom  deep  as  human  speech, 
Moving  without  haste  or  noise 
In  unbroken  equipoise. 

Though  thou  turnest  no  busy  mill, 
And  art  ever  calm  and  still, 

Even  thy  silence  seems  to  say 
To  the  traveller  on  his  way  : — 

“ Traveller,  hurrying  from  the  heat 
Of  the  city,  stay  thy  feet  ! 

Rest  awhile,  nor  longer  waste 
Life  with  inconsiderate  haste  ! 

“ Be  not  like  a stream  that  brawls 
Loud  with  shallow  waterfalls, 

But  in  quiet  self-control 
Link  together  soul  and  souL” 


364 


A BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


A BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


THKFE  FRIENDS  OF  MINE. 

I. 

Vhen  I remember  them,  those  friends 
of  mine, 

Who  are  no  longer  here,  the  noble 
three, 

Who  half  my  life  were  more  than 
friends  to  me, 

And  whose  discourse  was  like  a gener- 
ous wine, 

I most  of  all  remember  the  divine 

Something,  that  shone  in  them,  and 
made  us  see 

The  archetypal  man,  and  what  might 
be 

The  amplitude  of  Nature’s  first  design. 

In  vain  I stretch  my  hands  to  clasp 
their  hands  ; 

I cannot  find  them.  Nothing  now  is 
left 

But  a majestic  memory.  They  mean- 
while 

Wander  together  in  Elysian  lands, 

Perchance  remembering  me,  who  am 
bereft 

Of  their  dear  presence,  and,  remem- 
bering, smile. 

II. 

In  Attica  thy  birthplace  should  have 
been, 

Or  the  Ionian  Isles,  or  where  the  seas 

Encircle  in  their  arms  the  Cyclades, 

So  wholly  Greek  wast  thou  in  thy  se- 
rene 

And  childlike  joy  of  life,  0 Philhellene  ! 

Around  thee  would  have  swarmed  the 
Attic  bees  ; 

Homer  had  been  thy  friend,  or  Soc- 
rates, 

And  Plato  welcomed  thee  to  his  de- 
mesne. 

For  thee  old  legends  breathed  historic 
breath  ; 

Thou  sawest  Poseidon  in  the  purple 
sea, 


And  in  the  sunset  Jason’s  fleece  of 
gold ! 

0,  what  hadst  thou  to  do  with  cruel 
Death, 

Who  wast  so  full  of  life,  or  Death 
with  thee, 

That  thou  shouldst  die  before  thou 
hadst  grown  old  ! 


III. 

I stand  again  on  the  familiar  shore, 

And  hear  the  waves  of  the  distracted 
sea 

Piteously  calling  and  lamenting  thee, 

And  waiting  restless  at  thy  cottage 
door. 

The  rocks,  the  sea-weed  on  the  ocean 
floor, 

The  willows  in  the  meadow,  and  the 
free 

Wild  winds  of  the  Atlantic  welcome 
me  ; 

Then  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  and 
come  no  more  ? 

Ah,  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  when 
common  men 

Are  busy  with  their  trivial  affairs, 

Having  and  holding  ? Why,  when 
thou  hadst  read 

Nature’s  mysterious  manuscript,  and 
then 

Wast  ready  to  reveal  the  truth  it  bears, 

Why  art  thou  silent  ? Why  shouldst 
thou  be  dead  ? 


IV. 

River,  that  stealest  with  such  silent 

pace 

Around  the  City  of  the  Dead,  where 
lies 

A friend  who  bore  thy  name,  and 
whom  these  eyes 

Shall  see  no  more  in  his  accustomed 
place, 

Linger  and  fold  him  in  thy  soft  embrace 


MILTON.  365 


And  say  good  night,  for  now  the 
western  skies 

Are  red  with  sunset,  and  gray  mists 
arise 

Like  damps  that  gather  on  a dead 
man’s  face. 

Good  night ! good  night ! as  we  so  oft 
have  said 

Beneath  this  roof  at  midnight,  in  the 
days 

That  are  no  more,  and  shall  no  more 
return. 

Thou  hast  but  taken  thy  lamp  and  gone 
to  bed  ; 

I stay  a little  longer,  as  one  stays 

To  cover  up  the  embers  that  still  burn. 


y. 

The  doors  are  all  wide  open  ; at  the 
gate 

The  blossomed  lilacs  counterfeit  a 
blaze, 

And  seem  to  warm  the  air ; a dreamy 
haze 

Hangs  o’er  the  Brighton  meadows 
like  a fate, 

And  on  their  margin,  with  sea-tides 
elate, 

The  flooded  Charles,  as  in  the  happier 
days, 

Writes  the  last  letter  of  his  name,  and 
stays 

His  restless  steps,  as  if  compelled  to 
wait. 

I also  wait ; but  they  will  come  no 
more, 

Those  friends  of  mine,  whose  presence 
satisfied 

The  thirst  and  hunger  of  my  heart. 
Ah  me ! 

They  have  forgotten  the  pathway  to  my 
door ! 

Something  is  gone  from  nature  since 
they  died, 

And  summer  is  not  summer,  nor  can 
be. 


CHAUCER. 

An  old  man  in  a lodge  within  a park ; 
The  chamber  walls  depicted  all 
around 

With  portraitures  of  huntsman,  hawk, 
and  hound 


And  the  hurt  deer.  He  listeneth  to 
the  lark, 

Whose  song  comes  with  the  sunshine 
through  the  dark 

Of  painted  glass  in  leaden  lattice 
bound  ; 

He  listeneth  and  he  laugheth  at  the 
sound, 

Then  writeth  in  a book  like  any  clerk. 

He  is  the  poet  of  the  dawn,  who  wrote 

The  Canterbury  Tales,  and  his  old  age 

Made  beautiful  with  song  ; and  as  I 
read 

1 hear  the  crowing  cock,  I hear  the  note 

Of  lark  and  linnet,  and  from  every 

page 

Rise  odors  of  ploughed  field  or  flowery 
mead. 


SHAKESPEARE. 

A vision  as  of  crowded  city  streets, 
With  human  life  in  endless  overflow; 
Thunder  of  thoroughfares  ; trumpets 
that  blow 

To  battle ; clamor,  in  obscure  retreats, 

Of  sailors  landed  from  their  anchored 
fleets ; 

Tolling  of  bells  in  turrets,  and  below 
Voices  of  children,  and  bright  flowers 
that  throw 

O’er  garden-walls  their  intermingled 
sweets ! 

This  vision  comes  to  me  wdien  I unfold 
The  volume  of  the  Poet  paramount, 
Whom  all  the  Muses  loved,  not  one 
alone ; — 

Into  his  hands  they  put  the  lyre  of  gold, 
And,  crowned  with  sacred  laurel  at 
their  fount, 

Placed  him  as  Musagetes  on  their 
throne. 


MILTON. 

I pace  the  sounding  sea-beach  and  be- 
hold 

How  the  voluminous  billows  roll  and 
run, 

Upheaving  and  subsiding,  while  the 
sun 

Shines  through  their  sheeted  emerald 
far  unrolled, 

And  the  ninth  wave,  slow  gathering  fold 
by  fold 


366 


A BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


All  its  loose-flowing  garments  into 
one, 

Plunges  upon  the  shore,  and  floods 
the  dun 

Pale  reach  of  sands,  and  changes 
them  to  gold. 

So  in  majestic  cadence  rise  and  fall 
The  mighty  undulations  of  thy  song, 
0 sightless  bard,  England’s  Maeoni- 
des ! — 

And  ever  and  anon,  high  over  all 

Uplifted,  a ninth  wave  superb  and 
strong, 

Floods  all  the  soul  with  its  melodious 
seas. 


KEATS. 

The  young  Endymion  sleeps  Endymion’s 
sleep  $ 

The  shepherd-boy  whose  tale  was  left 
half  told  ! 

The  solemn  grove  uplifts  its  shield  of 
gold 

To  the  red  rising  moon,  and  loud  and 
deep 

The  nightingale  is  singing  from  the  steep ; 

It  is  midsummer,  but  the  air  is  cold ; 

Can  it  be  death  ? Alas,  beside  the  fold 

A shepherd’s  pipe  lies  shattered  near 
his  sheep. 

Lo  ! in  the  moonlight  gleams  a marble 
white, 

On  which  I read  : “Here  lieth  one 
whose  name 

Was  writ  in  water.”  And  was  this 
the  meed 

Of  his  sweet  singing  ? Rather  let  me 
write  : 

“The  smoking  flax  before  it  burst  to 
flame 

Was  quenched  by  death,  and  broken 
the  bruised  reed.” 


THE  GALAXY. 

Torrent  of  light  and  river  of  the  air, 

Along  whose  bed  the  glimmering  stars 
are  seen 

Like  gold  and  silver  sands  in  some 
ravine 

Where  mountain  streams  have  left 
their  channels  bare  ! 

The  Spaniard  sees  in  thee  the  pathway, 
where 


His  patron  saint  descended  in  the  sheen 
Of  his  celestial  armor,  on  serene 
And  quiet  nights,  when  all  the  heavens 
were  fair. 

Not  this  I see,  nor  yet  the  ancient  fable 
Of  Phaeton’s  wild  course,  that  scorched 
the  skies 

Where’er  the  hoofs  of  his  hot  coursers 
trod  ; 

But  the  white  drift  of  worlds  o’er  chasms 
of  sable, 

The  star-dust,  that  is  whirled  aloft 
and  flies 

From  the  invisible  chariot- wheels  of 
God. 

THE  SOUND  OF  THE  SEA. 

The  sea  awoke  at  midnight  from  its  sleep, 
And  round  the  pebbly  beaches  far  and 
wide 

I heard  the  first  wave  of  the  rising  tide 
Rush  onward  with  uninterrupted 
sweep ; 

A voice  out  of  the  silence  of  the  deep, 

A sound  mysteriously  multiplied 
As  of  a cataract  from  the  mountain’s 
side, 

Or  roar  of  winds  upon  a wooded  steep. 

So  comes  to  us  at  times,  from  the  un- 
known 

And  inaccessible  solitudes  of  being, 
The  rushing  of  the  sea- tides  of  the  soul ; 

And  inspirations,  that  we  deem  our  own, 
Are  some  divine  foreshadowing  and 
foreseeing 

Of  things  beyond  our  reason  or  control. 


A SUMMER  DAY  BY  THE  SEA. 

The  sun  is  set ; and  in  his  latest  beams 
Yon  little  cloud  of  ashen  gray  and  gold, 
Slowly  upon  the  amber  air  unrolled. 
The  falling  mantle  of  the  Prophet 

seems. 

From  the  dim  headlands  many  a light- 
house gleams, 

The  street-lamps  of  the  ocean;  and 
behold, 

O’erhead  the  banners  of  the  night  un- 
fold ; 

The  day  hath  passed  into  the  land  of 
dreams. 

0 summer  day  beside  the  joyous  sea ! 

0 summer  day  so  wonderful  and  white, 


SLEEP.  367 


So  full  of  gladness  and  so  full  of  pain  ! 
Forever  and  forever  shalt  thou  be 

To  some  the  gravestone  of  a dead  de- 
light, 

To  some  the  landmark  of  a new  do- 
main. 


THE  TIDES. 

I saw  the  long  line  of  the  vacant  shore, 

The  sea-weed  and  the  shells  upon  the 
sand, 

And  the  brown  rocks  left  bare  on  every 
hand, 

As  if  the  ebbing  tide  would  flow  no 
more. 

Then  heard  I,  more  distinctly  than  before, 

The  ocean  breathe  and  its  great  breast 
expand, 

And  hurrying  came  on  the  defenceless 
land 

The  insurgent  waters  with  tumultuous 
roar. 

All  thought  and  feeling  and  desire,  I 
said, 

Love,  laughter,  and  the  exultant  joy  of 
song 

Have  ebbed  from  me  forever!  Sud- 
denly o’er  me 

They  swept  again  from  their  deep  ocean 
bed, 

And  in  a tumult  of  delight,  and  strong 

As  youth,  and  beautiful  as  youth,  up- 
bore me. 


A SHADOW. 

I said  unto  myself,  if  I were  dead, 
What  would  befall  these  children? 
What  would  be 

Their  fate,  who  now  are  looking  up  to 
me 

For  help  and  furtherance  ? Their  lives, 
I said, 

Would  be  a volume  wherein  I have  read 
But  the  first  chapters,  and  no  longer 
see 

To  read  the  rest  of  their  dear  history, 
So  full  of  beaut)7  and  so  full  of  dread. 

Be  comforted ; the  world  is  very  old, 
And  generations  pass,  as  they  have 
passed, 

A troop  of  shadows  moving  with  the 
sun ; 


Thousands  of  times  has  the  old  tale  been 
told  ; 

The  world  belongs  to  those  who  come 
the  last, 

They  will  find  hope  and  strength  as 
we  have  done. 

A NAMELESS  GRAVE. 

“A  soldier  of  the  Union  mustered  out,” 
Is  the  inscription  on  an  unknown  grave 
At  Newport  News,  beside  the  salt-sea 
wave, 

Nameless  and  dateless;  sentinel  or 
scout 

Shot  down  in  skirmish,  or  disastrous  rout 
Of  battle,  when  the  loud  artillery  drave 
Its  iron  wedges  through  the  ranks  of 
brave 

And  doomed  battalions,  storming  the 
redoubt. 

Thou  unknown  hero  sleeping  by  the  sea 
In  thy  forgotten  grave  ! with  secret 
shame 

I feel  my  pulses  beat,  my  forehead  burn, 

When  I remember  thou  hast  given  for  me 
All  that  thou  hadst,  thy  life,  thy  very 
name, 

And  I can  give  thee  nothing  in  return. 
SLEEP. 

Lull  me  to  sleep,  ye  winds,  whose  fitful 
sound 

Seems  from  some  faint  iEolian  harp- 
string caught ; 

Seal  up  the  hundred  wakeful  eyes  of 
thought 

As  Hermes  with  his  lyre  in  sleep  pro- 
found 

The  hundred  wakeful  eyes  of  Argus 
bound  ; 

Eor  I am  weary,  and  am  overwrought 
With  too  much  toil,  with  too  much 
care  distraught, 

And  with  the  iron  crown  of  anguish 
crowned. 

Lay  thy  soft  hand  upon  my  brow  and 
cheek, 

0 peaceful  Sleep  ! until  from  pain  re- 

leased 

1 breathe  again  uninterrupted  breath  ! 

Ah,  with  what  subtile  meaning  did  the 

Greek 

Call  thee  the  lesser  mystery  at  the  feast 
Whereof  the  greater  mystery  is  death ! 


368 


KERAMOS. 


THE  OLD  BRIDGE  AT  FLORENCE. 


IL  PONTE  VECCHIO  DI  FIRENZE, 


Taddeo  Gaddi  built  me.  I am  old, 
Five  centuries  old.  I plant  my  foot 
of  stone 

Upon  the  Arno,  as  St.  Michael’s  own 
Was  planted  on  the  dragon.  Fold  by 
fold 

Beneath  me  as  it  struggles,  I behold 
Its  glistening  scales.  Twice  hath  it 
overthrown 

My  kindred  and  companions.  Me 
alone 

It  moveth  not,  but  is  by  me  controlled. 

I can  remember  when  the  Medici 

Were  driven  from  Florence ; longer 
still  ago 

The  final  wars  of  Ghibelline  and  Guelf. 

Florence  adorns  me  with  her  jewelry  ; 
And  when  I think  that  Michael  Angelo 
Hath  leaned  on  me,  I glory  in  myself. 


Gaddi  mi  fece  ; il  Ponte  Vecchio  sono  ; 
Cinquecent’  anni  gia  sull’  Arno  pi- 
anto 

Il  piede,  come  il  suo  Michele  Santo 
Pianto  sul  draco.  Mentre  ch’  io  ra- 
giono 

Lo  vedo  torcere  con  flebil  suono 

Le  rilucenti  scaglie.  Ha  questi  af- 
f ran  to 

Due  volte  i miei  maggior.  Me  solo 
in  tan  to 

Neppure  muove,  ed  io  non  1’  abban- 
dono. 

Io  mi  rammento  quando  fur  cacciati 
I Medici  ; pur  quando  Ghibellino 
E Guelfo  fecer  pace  mi  rammento. 

Fiorenza  i suoi  giojelli  m’  ha  prestati  ; 

E quando  penso  cli  Agnolo  il  divino 
Su  me  posava,  insuperbir  mi  sento. 


KERAMOS. 


Turn,  turn , my  wheel ! Turn  round 
and,  round 

Without  a 'pause,  without  a,  sound  : 

So  spins  the  flying  world  away  ! 

This  clay,  xoell  mixed  withmarl  and  sand, 
Follows  the  motion  of  my  hand  ; 

For  some  must  follow,  and  some  com- 
mand, 

Though  all  are  made  of  clay  ! 

Thus  sang  the  Potter  at  his  task 
Beneath  the  blossoming  hawthorn-tree, 
While  o’er  his  features,  like  a mask, 

The  quilted  sunshine  and  leaf-shade 
Moved,  as  the  boughs  above  him  swayed, 
And  clothed  him,  till  he  seemed  to  be 
A figure  woven  in  tapestry, 

So  sumptuously  was  he  arrayed 
In  that  magnificent  attire 
Of  sable  tissue  flaked  with  fire. 

Like  a magician  he  appeared, 

A conjurer  without  book  or  beard  ; 

And  while  he  plied  his  magic  art  — 

For  it  was  magical  to  me  — 

I stood  in  silence  and  apart, 

And  wondered  more  and  more  to  see 
That  shapeless,  lifeless  mass  of  clay 


Rise  up  to  meet  the  master’s  hand, 

And  now  contract  and  now  expand, 

And  even  his  slightest  touch  obey  ; 
While  ever  in  a thoughtful  mood 
He  sang  his  ditty,  and  at  times 
Whistled  a tune  between  the  rhymes, 

As  a melodious  interlude. 

Turn,  turn,  my  viheel ! All  things  must 
change 

To  something  new,  to  something  strange  ; 

Nothing  that,  is  can  pause  or  stay  ; 

The  moon  will  wax,  the  moon  will  wane , 
The  mist  and  cloud  toil l turn  to  rain , 
The  rain  to  mist  and  cloud  again, 
To-morrow  he  to-day. 

Thus  still  the  Potter  sang,  and  still, 

By  some  unconscious  act  of  will, 

The  melody  and  even  the  words 
Were  intermingled  with  my  thought, 

As  bits  of  colored  thread  are  caught 
And  woven  into  nests  of  birds. 

And  thus  to  regions  far  remote, 

Beyond  the  ocean’s  vast  expanse, 

This  wizard  in  the  motley  coat 
Transported  me  on  wings  of  song, 


KEPwUIOS. 


369 


And  hy  the  northern  shores  of  France 
Bore  me  with  restless  speed  along. 

What  land  is  this  that  seems  to  he 
A mingling  of  the  land  and  sea  ? 

This  land  of  sluices,  dikes,  and  dunes  ? 
This  water-net,  that  tessellates 
The  landscape  ? this  unending  maze 
Of  gardens,  through  whose  latticed  gates 
The  imprisoned  pinks  and  tulips  gaze  ; 
Where  in  long  summer  afternoons 
The  sunshine,  softened  by  the  haze, 
Comes  streaming  down  as  through  a 
screen  ; 

Where  over  fields  and  pastures  green 
The  painted  ships  float  high  in  air, 

And  over  all  and  everywhere 

The  sails  of  windmills  sink  and  soar 

Like  wings  of  sea-gulls  on  the  shore  ? 

What  land  is  this  ? Yon  pretty  town 
Is  Delft,  with  all  its  wares  displayed  ; 
The  pride,  the  market-place,  the  crown 
And  centre  of  the  Potter’s  trade. 

See  ! every  house  and  room  is  bright 
With  glimmers  of  reflected  light 
From  plates  that  on  the  dresser  shine  ; 
Flagons  to  foam  with  Flemish  beer, 

Or  sparkle  with  the  Rhenish  wine, 

And  pilgrim  flasks  with  fleurs-de-lis, 
And  ships  upon  a rolling  sea, 

And  tankards  pewter  topped,  and  queer 
With  comic  mask  and  musketeer  ! 

Each  hospitable  chimney  smiles 
A welcome  from  its  painted  tiles; 

The  parlor  walls,  the  chamber  floors, 
The  stairways  and  the  corridors, 

The  borders  of  the  garden  walks, 

Are  beautiful  with  fadeless  flowers, 

That  never  droop  in  winds  or  showers, 
And  never  wither  on  their  stalks. 

Turn , turn , my  wheel!  All  life  is  brief ; 
What  nov)  is  bud  will  soon  be  leaf 
What  now  is  leaf  will  soon  decay  ; 
The  wind  blows  cast , the  wind  blows  west ; 
The  blue  eggs  in  the  robin's  nest 
Will  soon  have  wings  and  beak  and  breast, 
And  flutter  and l fly  away. 

Now  southward  through  the  air  I glide, 
The  song  my  only  pursuivant, 

And  see  across  the  landscape  wide 
The  blue  Charente,  upon  whose  tide 
The  belfries  and  the  spires  of  Saintes 
Ripple  and  rock  from  side  to  side, 

As,  when  an  earthquake  rends  its  walls, 
A crumbling  city  reels  and  falls. 

24 


Who  is  it  in  the  suburbs  here, 

This  Potter,  working  with  such  cheer, 
In  this  mean  house,  this  mean  attire, 
His  manly  features  bronzed  with  fire, 
Whose  figulines  and  rustic  wares 
Scarce  find  him  bread  from  day  to  day  ? 
This  madman,  as  the  people  say, 

Who  breaks  his  tables  and  his  chairs 
To  feed  his  furnace  fires,  nor  cares 
Who  goes  unfed  if  they  are  fed, 

Nor  who  may  live  if  they  aye  dead  ? 
This  alchemist  with  hollow  cheeks 
And  sunken,  searching  eyes,  who  seeks, 
By  mingled  earths  and  ores  combined 
With  potency  of  fire,  to  find 
Some  new  enamel,  hard  and  bright, 

His  dream,  his  passion,  his  delight  ? 

0 Palissy  ! within  thy  breast 
Burned  the  hot  fever  of  unrest  ; 

Thine  was  the  prophet’s  vision,  thine 
The  exultation,  the  divine 
Insanity  of  noble  minds, 

That  never  falters  nor  abates, 

But  labors  and  endures  and  waits, 

Till  all  that  it  foresees  it  finds, 

Or  what  it  cannot  find  creates  ! 

Turn,  turn,  my  wheel  ! This  earthen  jar 
A touch  can  make,  a touch  can  mar  ; 

And  shall  it  to  the  Potter  say , 

What  makest  thou  ? Thou  hast  no  hand  ? 
As  men  who  think  to  understand 
A world  by  their  Creator  planned, 

Who  wiser  is  than  they. 

Still  guided  by  the  dreamy  song, 

As  in  a trance  I float  along 
Above  the  Pyrenean  chain, 

Above  the  fields  and  farms  of  Spain, 
Above  the  bright  Majorcan  isle, 

That  lends  its  softened  name  to  art,  — 
A spot,  a dot  upon  the  chart, 

Whose  little  towns,  red-roofed  with  tile, 
Are  ruby-lustred  with  the  light 
Of  blazing  furnaces  by  night, 

And  crowned  by  day  with  wreaths  of 
smoke. 

Then  eastward,  wafted  in  my  flight 
On  my  enchanter’s  magic  cloak, 

1 sail  across  the  Tyrrhene  Sea 
Into  the  land  of  Italy, 

And  o’er  the*  windy  Apennines, 

Mantled  and  musical  with  pines. 

The  palaces,  the  princely  halls, 

The  doors  of  houses  and  the  walls 


370 


KERAJMOS. 


Of  churches  and  of  belfry  towers, 
Cloister  and  castle,  street  and  mart, 

Are  garlanded  and  gay  with  flowers 
That  blossom  in  the  fields  of  art. 

Here  Gubbio’s  workshops  gleam  andglow 
With  brilliant,  iridescent  dyes, 

The  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  snow, 

The  cobalt  blue  of  summer  skies  ; 

And  vase  and  scutcneon,  cup  and  plate, 
In  perfect  finish  emulate 
Faenza,  Florence,  Pesaro. 

Forth  from  Urbino’s  gate  there  came 
A youth  with  the  angelic  name 
Of  Raphael,  in  form  and  face 
Himself  angelic,  and  divine 
In  arts  of  color  and  design. 

From  him. Francesco  Xanto  caught 
Something  of  his  transcendent  grace, 
And  into  fictile  fabrics  wrought 
Suggestions  of  the  master’s  thought. 
Nor  less  Maestro  Giorgio  shines 
With  madre-perl  and  golden  lines 
Of  arabesques,  and  interweaves 
His  birds  and  fruits  and  flowers  and  leaves 
About  some  landscape,  shaded  brown, 
With  olive  tints  on  rock  and  town. 
Behold  this  cup  within  whose  bowl, 
Upon  a ground  of  deepest  blue 
With  yellow-lustred  stars  o’erlaid, 

Colors  of  every  tint  and  hue 
Mingle  in  one  harmonious  whole  ! 

With  large  blue  eyes  and  steadfast  gaze, 
Her  yellow  hair  in  net  and  braid, 
Necklace  and  ear-rings  all  ablaze 
With  golden  lustre  o’er  the  glaze, 

A woman’s  portrait ; on  the  scroll, 

Cana,  the  Beautiful ! A name 
Forgotten  save  for  such  brief  fame 
As  this  memorial  can  bestow,  — 

A gift  some  lover  long  ago 

Gave  with  his  heart  to  this  fair  dame. 

A nobler  title  to  renown 
Is  thine,  0 pleasant  Tuscan  town, 
Seated  beside  the  Arno’s  stream  ; 

For  Lucca  della  Robbia  there 
Created  forms  so  wondrous  fair, 

They  made  thy  sovereignty  supreme. 
These  choristers  with  lips  of  stone, 
Whose  music  is  not  heard,  but  seen, 
Still  chant,  as  from  their  organ -screen, 
Their  Maker’s  praise  ; nor  these  alone, 
But  the  more  fragile  forms  of  clay, 
Hardly  less  beautiful  than  they, 

These  saints  and  angels  that  adorn 
The  walls  of  hospitals,  and  tell 


The  story  of  good  deeds  so  well 
That  poverty  seems  less  forlorn, 

And  life  more  like  a holiday. 

Here  in  this  old  neglected  church, 

That  long  eludes  the  traveller’s  search, 
Lies  the  dead  bishop  on  his  tomb  ; 
Earth  upon  earth  he  slumbering  lies, 
Life-like  and  death-like  in  the  gloom  ; 
Garlands  of  fruit  and  flowers  in  bloom 
And  foliage  deck  his  resting  place  ; 

A shadow  in  the  sightless  eyes, 

A pallor  on  the  patient  face, 

Made  perfect  by  the  furnace  heat ; 

All  earthly  passions  and  desires 
Burnt  out  by  purgatorial  fires  ; 

Seeming  to  say,  “ Our  years  are  fleet, 
And  to  the  weary  death  is  sweet.” 

But  the  most  wonderful  of  all 
The  ornaments  on  tomb  or  wall 
That  grace  the  fair  Ausonian  shores 
Are  those  the  faithful  earth  restores, 
Near  some  Apulian  town  concealed, 

In  vineyard  or  in  harvest  field,  — 

Vases  and  urns  and  bas-reliefs, 
Memorials  of  forgotten  griefs, 

Or  records  of  heroic  deeds 
Of  demigods  and  mighty  chiefs- : 
Figures  that  almost  move  and  speak, 
And,  buried  amid  mould  and  weeds, 
Still  in  their  attitudes  attest 
The  presence  of  the  graceful  Greek,  — 
Achilles  in  his  armor  dressed, 

Alcides  with  the  Cretan  bull, 

And  Aphrodite  with  her  boy, 

Or  lovely  Helena  of  Troy, 

Still  living  and  still  beautiful. 

Turn , turn , my  wheel!  ’ T is  nature's  plan 
The  child  should  grow  into  the  man , 

The  man  grow  wrinkled,  old , and  gray  ; 
In  youth  the  heart  exults  and  sings , 

The  pulses  leap , the  feet  have  wings  ; 

In  age  the  cricket  chirps , and  brings 
The  harvest  home  of  day. 

And  now  the  winds  that  southward  blow, 
And  cool  the  hot  Sicilian  isle, 

Bear  me  away.  I see  below 
The  long  line  of  the  Libyan  Nile, 
Flooding  and  feeding  the  parched  lands 
With  annual  ebb  and  overflow, 

A fallen  palm  whose  branches  lie 
Beneath  the  Abyssinian  sky, 

Whose  roots  are  in  Egyptian  sands. 

On  either  bank  huge  water-wheels, 


KE1RAM0S. 


371 


Belted  with  jars  and  dripping  weeds, 
Send  forth  their  melancholy  moans, 

As  if,  in  their  gray  mantles  hid, 

Bead  anchorites  of  the  Thebaid 
Knelt  on  the  shore  and  told  their  heads, 
Beating  their  breasts  with  loud  appeals 
And  penitential  tears  and  groans. 

This  city,  walled  and  thickly  set 
With  glittering  mosque  and  minaret, 

Is  Cairo,  in  whose  gay  bazaars 
The  dreaming  traveller  first  inhales 
The  perfume  of  Arabian  gales, 

And  sees  the  fabulous  earthen  jars, 
Huge  as  were  those  wherein  the  maid 
Morgiana.  found  the  Forty  Thieves 
Concealed  in  midnight  ambuscade  ; 

And  seeing,  more  than  half  believes 
The  fascinating  tales  that  run 
Through  all  the  Thousand  Nights  and 
One, 

Told  by  the  fair  Scheherezade. 

More  strange  and  wonderful  than  these 
Are  the  Egyptian  deities, 

Ammon,  and  Emoth,  and  the  grand 
Osiris,  holding  in  his  hand 
The  lotus  ; Isis,  crowned  and  veiled  ; 
The  sacred  Ibis,  and  the  Sphinx  ; 
Bracelets  with  blue  enamelled  links  ; 
The  Scarabee  in  emerald  mailed, 

Or  spreading  wide  his  funeral  wings  ; 
Lamps  that  perchance  their  night-watch 
kept 

O’er  Cleopatra  while  she  slept,  — 

All  plundered  from  the  tombs  of  kings. 

Turn , turn,  my  wheel!  The  human  race, 
Of  every  tongue , of  every  place, 
Caucasian,  Coptic,  or  Malay , 

All  that  inhabit  this  great  earth, 
Wlmtever  be  their  rank  or  worth, 

Are  kindred,  and  allied  by  birth, 

And  made  of  the  same  clay. 

O’er  desert  sands,  o’er  gulf  and  bay, 
O’er  Ganges  and  o’er  Himalay, 

Bird-like  I fly,  and  flying  sing, 

To  flowery  kingdoms  of  ( ’athay, 

And  bird-like  poise  on  balanced  wing 
Above  the  town  of  King-te-tching, 

A burning  town,  or  seeming  so,  — 
Three  thousand  furnaces  that  glow 
Incessantly,  and  fill  the  air 
With  smoke  uprising,  gyre  on  gyre 
And  painted  by  the  lurid  glare, 

Of  jets  and  flashes  of  red  fire. 


As  leaves  that  in  the  autumn  fall, 
Spotted  and  veined  with  various  hues, 
Are  swept  along  the  avenues. 

And  lie  in  heaps  by  hedge  and  wall, 

So  from  this  grove  of  chimneys  whirled 
To  all  the  markets  of  the  world, 

These  porcelain  leaves  are  wafted  on,  — 
Light  }^ellow  leaves  with  spots  and  stains 
Of  violet  and  of  crimson  dye, 

Or  tender  azure  of  a sky 

Just  washed  by  gentle  April  rains, 

And  beautiful  with  celadon. 

Nor  less  the  coarser  household  wares,  — 
The  willow  pattern,  that  we  knew 
In  childhood,  with  its  bridge  of  blue 
Leading  to  unknown  thoroughfares  ; 
The  solitary  man  who  stares 
At  the  white  river  flowing  through 
Its  arches,  the  fantastic  trees 
And  wild  perspective  of  the  view ; 

And  intermingled  among  these 
The  tiles  that  in  our  nurseries 
Filled  us  with  wonder  and  delight, 

Or  haunted  us  in  dreams  at  night. 

And  yonder  by  Nankin,  behold  ! 

The  Tower  of  Porcelain,  strange  and  old, 
Uplifting  to  the  astonished  skies 
Its  ninefold  painted  balconies, 

With  balustrades  of  twining  leaves, 

And  roofs  of  tile,  beneath  whose  eaves 
Hang  porcelain  bells  that  all  the  time 
Ring  with  a soft,  melodious  chime  ; 
While  the  whole  fabric  is  ablaze  t 
With  varied  tints,  all  fused  in  one 
Great  mass  of  color,  like  a maze 
Of  flowers  illumined  by  the  sun. 

Turn,  turn,  my  v:heel ! What  is  begun 
At  daybreak  must  at  dark  be  done, 
To-morrow  will  be  another  day  ; 
To-morroiv  the  hot  furnace  flame 
Will  search  the  heart  and  try  the  frame, 
And  stamp  with  honor  or  ivilh  shame 
These  vessels  made  of  clay. 

Cradled  and  rocked  in  Eastern  seas, 

The  islands  of  the  Japanese 
Beneath  me  lie  ; o’er  lake  and  plain 
The  stork,  the  heron,  and  the  crane 
Through  the  clear  realms  of  azure  drift, 
And  on  the  hillside  I can  see 
The  villages  of  Imari, 

Whose  thronged  and  flaming  workshops 
lift 

Their  twisted  columns  of  smoke  on  high, 


372 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


Cloud  cloisters  that  in  ruins  lie. 

With  sunshine  streaming  through  each 
rift, 

And  broken  arches  of  blue  sky. 

All  the  bright  flowers  that  fill  the  land, 
Ripple  of  waves  on  rock  or  sand, 

The  snow  on  Fusiyama’s  cone, 

The  midnight  heaven  so  thickly  sown 
With  constellations  of  bright  stars, 

The  leavesthat  rustle,  the  reeds  that  make 
A whisper  by  each  stream  and  lake, 

The  saffron  dawn,  the  sunset  red, 

Are  painted  on  these  lovely  jars  ; 

Again  the  skylark  sings,  again 
The  stork,  the  heron,  and  the  crane 
Float  through  the  azure  overhead. 

The  counterfeit  and  counterpart 
Of  Nature  reproduced  in  Art. 

Art  is  the  child  of  Nature  ; yes, 

Her  darling  child,  in  whom  we  trace 
The  features  of  the  mother’s  face, 

Her  aspect  and  her  attitude, 

All  her  majestic  loveliness 
Chastened  and  softened  and  subdued 
Into  a more  attractive  grace, 

And  with  a human  sense  imbued. 

He  is  the  greatest  artist,  then, 

Whether  of  pencil  or  of  pen, 


Who  follows  Nature.  Never  man, 

As  artist  or  as  artisan, 

Pursuing  his  own  fantasies, 

Can  touch  the  human  heart,  or  please, 
Or  satisfy  our  nobler  needs, 

As  he  who  sets  his  willing  feet 
In  Nature’s  footprints,  light  and  fleet, 
And  follows  fearless  where  she  leads. 

Thus  mused  I on  that  morn  in  May, 
Wrapped  in  my  visions  like  the  Seer, 
Whose  eyes  behold  not  what  is  near. 
But  only  what  is  far  away, 

When,  suddenly  sounding  peal  on  peal, 
The  church-bell  from  the  neighboring 
town 

Proclaimed  the  welcome  hour  of  noon. 
The  Potter  heard,  and  stopped  his  wheel, 
His  apron  on  the  grass  threw  down, 
Whistled  his  quiet  little  tune. 

Not  overloud  nor  overlong, 

And  ended  thus  his  simple  song: 

Stop , stop , my  wheel  ! Too  soon , too  soon 
The  noon  will  he  the  afternoon , 

Too  soon  to-day  he  yesterday  ; 

Behind  us  in  our  path  we  cast 
The  broken  potsherds  of  the  past , 

And  all  are  ground  to  dust  at  last , 

And  trodden  into  clay  ! 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

FLIGHT  THE  FIFTH. 


THE  HERONS  OF  ELMWOOD. 

Warm  and  still  is  the  summer  night, 

As  here  by  the  river’s  brink  I wander  ; 

White  overhead  are  the  stars,  and  white 
The  glimmering  lamps  on  the  hillside 
yonder. 

Silent  are  all  the  sounds  of  day  ; 

Nothing  I hear  but  the  chirp  of  crickets, 

And  the  cry  of  the  herons  winging  their 
way 

O’er  the  poet’s  house  in  the  Elmwood 
thickets. 

Call  to  him,  herons,  as  slowly  you  pass 
To  your  roosts  in  the  haunts  of  the 
exiled  thrushes, 


Sing  him  the  song  of  the  green  morass, 
And  the  tides  that  water  the  reeds  and 
rushes. 

Sing  him  the  mystical  Song  of  the  Hern, 
And  the  secret  that  baffles  our  utmost 
seeking ; 

For  only  a sound  of  lament  we  discern, 
And  cannot  interpret  the  wnrds  you 
are  speaking. 

Sing  of  the  air,  and  the  wild  delight 
Of  wings  that  uplift  and  winds  that 
uphold  you. 

The  joy  of  freedom,  the  rapture  of  flight 
Through  the  drift  of  the  floating  mists 
that  infold  you ; 


CASTLES  IN  SPAIN. 


373 


Of  the  landscape  lying  so  far  below. 
With  its  towns  and  rivers  and  desert 
places ; 

And  the  splendor  of  light  above,  and  the 
glow 

Of  the  limitless,  blue,  ethereal  spaces. 

Ask  him  if  songs  of  the  Troubadours, 
Or  of  Minnesingers  in  old  black-letter, 

Sound  in  his  ears  more  sweet  than  yours, 
And  if  yours  are  not  sweeter  and  wilder 
and  better. 

Sing  to  him,  say  to  him,  here  at  his  gate, 
Where  the  boughs  of  the  stately  elms 
are  meeting, 

Some  one  hath  lingered  to  meditate, 
And  send  him  unseen  this  friendly 
greeting ; 

That  many  another  hath  done  the  same, 
Though  not  by  a sound  was  the  silence 
broken  ; 

The  surest  pledge  of  a deathless  name 
Is  the  silent  homage  of  thoughts  un- 
spoken. 


A DUTCH  PICTURE. 

Simon  Danz  has  come  home  again, 
From  cruising  about  with  his  bucca- 
neers ; 

He  has  singed  the  beard  of  the  King  of 
Spain, 

And  carried  away  the  Dean  of  Jaen 
And  sold  him  in  Algiers. 

In  his  house  by  the  Maese,  with  its  roof 
of  tiles, 

And  weathercocks  flying  aloft  in  air, 
There  are  silver  tankards  of  antique  styles, 
Plunder  of  convent  and  castle,  and  piles 
Of  carpets  rich  and  rare. 

In  his  tulip-garden  there  by  the  town, 
Overlooking  the  sluggish  stream, 
With  his  Moorish  cap  and  dressing-gown, 
The  old  sea-captain,  hale  and  brown, 
Walks  in  a waking  dream. 

A smile  in  his  gray  mustachio  lurks 
Whenever  he  thinks  of  the  King  of 
Spain, 

And  the  listed  tulips  look  like  Turks, 
And  the  silent  gardener  as  he  works 
Is  changed  to  the  Dean  of  Jaen. 


The  windmills  on  the  outermost 
Verge  of  the  landscape  in  the  haze, 
To  him  are  towers  on  the  Spanish  coast, 
With  whiskered  sentinels  at  their  post, 
Though  this  is  the  river  Maese. 

But  when  the  winter  rains  begin, 

He  sits  and  smokes  by  the  blazing 
brands, 

And  old  seafaring  men  come  in, 
Goat-bearded,  gray,  and  with  double 
chin, 

And  rings  upon  their  hands. 

They  sit  there  in  the  shadow  and  shine 
Of  the  flickering  fire  of  the  winter  night ; 
Figures  in  color  and  design 
Like  those  by  Rembrandt  of  the  Rhine, 
Half  darkness  and  half  light. 

And  they  talk  of  ventures  lost  or  won, 
And  their  talk  is  ever  and  ever  the 
same, 

While  they  drink  the  red  wine  of  Tarra- 
gon. 

From  the  cellars  of  some  Spanish  Don, 
Or  convent  set  on  flame. 

Restless  at  times  with  heavy  strides 
He  paces  his  parlor  to  and  fro  ; 

He  is  like  a ship  that  at  anchor  rides, 
And  swings  with  the  rising  and  falling 
tides, 

And  tugs  at  her  anchor-tow. 

Voices  mysterious  far  and  near, 

Soundof  the  wind  and  sound  of  thesea, 
Are  calling  and  whispering  in  his  ear, 

“ Simon  Danz  ! Why  stayest  thou  here  ? 
Come  forth  and  follow  me  ! ” 

So  he  thinks  he  shall  take  to  the  sea  again 
For  one  more  cruise  with  his  bucca- 
neers, 

To  singe  the  beard  of  the  King  of  Spain, 
And  capture  another  Dean  of  Jaen 
And  sell  him  in  Algiers. 


CASTLES  IN  SPAIN. 

How  much  of  my  young  heart,  0 Spain, 
Went  out  to  thee  in  days  of  yore  ! 
What  dreams  romantic  filled  my  brain, 
And  summoned  back  to  life  again 
The  Paladins  of  Charlemagne 
The  Cid  Campeador ! 


374 


BIRDS  OF  TASSAGE. 


And  shapes  more  shadowy  than  these, 
In  the  dim  twilight  half  revealed  ; 
Phoenician  galleys  on  the  seas, 

The  Roman  camps  like  hives  of  bees, 
The  Goth  uplifting  from  his  knees 
Pelayo  on  his  shield. 

It  was  these  memories  perchance, 

From  annals  of  remotest  eld, 

That  lent  the  colors  of  romance 
To  every  trivial  circumstance, 

And  changed  the  form  and  countenance 
Of  all  that  I beheld. 

Old  towns,  whose  history  lies  hid 
In  monkish  chronicle  or  rhyme,  - 
Burgos,  the  birthplace  of  the  Cid, 
Zamora  and  Valladolid, 

Toledo,  built  and  walled  amid 
The  wars  of  Wamba’s  time  ; 

The  long,  straight  line  of  the  high- 
way, 

The  distant  town  that  seems  so  near, 
The  peasants  in  the  fields,  that  stay 
Their  toil  to  cross  themselves  and  pray, 
When  from  the  belfry  at  midday 
The  Angelus  they  hear  ; 

White  crosses  in  the  mountain  pass, 
Mules  gay  with  tassels,  the  loud  din 
Of  muleteers,  the  tethered  ass 
That  crops  the  dusty  wayside  grass, 

And  cavaliers  with  spurs  of  brass 
Alighting  at  the  inn  ; 

White  hamlets  hidden  in  fields  of  wheat, 
White  cities  slumbering  by  the  sea, 
White  sunshine  flooding  square  and 
street, 

Dark  mountain-ranges,  at  whose  feet 
The  river-beds  are  dry  with  heat,  — 

All  was  a dream  to  me. 

Yet  something  sombre  and  severe 

O’er  the  enchanted  landscape  reigned  ; 
A terror  in  the  atmosphere 
As  if  King  Philip  listened  near, 

Or  Torquemada,  the  austere, 

FI  is  ghostly  sway  maintained. 

The  softer  Andalusian  skies 

Dispelled  the  sadness  and  the  gloom  ; 
There  Cadiz  by  the  seaside  lies, 

And  Seville’s  orange-orchards  rise, 
Making  the  land  a paradise 
Of  beauty  and  of  bloom. 


There  Cordova  is  hidden  among 
The  palm,  the  olive,  and  the  vine  ; 
Gem  of  the  South,  by  poets  sung, 

And  in  whose  Mosque  Almanzor  hung 
As  lamps  the  bells  that  once  had  rung 
At  Compostella’s  shrine. 

But  over  all  the  rest  supreme, 

The  star  of  stars,  the  cynosure, 

The  artist’s  and  the  poet’s  theme, 

The  young  man’s  vision,  the  old  man’s 
dream,  — 

Granada  by  its  winding  stream, 

The  city  of  the  Moor  ! 

And  there  the  Alhambra  still  recalls 
Aladdin’s  palace  of  delight  : 

Allah  il  Allah  ! through  its  halls 
Whispers  the  fountain  as  it  falls, 

The  Darro  darts  beneath  its  walls, 

The  hills  with  snow  are  white. 

Ah  yes,  the  hills  are  white  with  snow, 
And  cold  with  blasts  that  bite  and 
freeze  ; 

But  in  the  happy  vale  below 
The  orange  and  pomegranate  grow, 

And  wafts  of  air  toss  to  and  fro 
The  blossoming  almond-trees. 

The  Vega  cleft  by  the  Xenil, 

The  fascination  and  allure 
Of  the  sweet  landscape  chains  the  will ; 
The  traveller  lingers  on  the  hill, 

His  parted  lips  are  breathing  still 
The  last  sigh  of  the  Moor. 

How  like  a ruin  overgrowm 

W ith  flowers  that  hide  the  rents  of  time, 
Stands  now  the  Past  that  1 have  known, 
Castles  in  Spain,  not  built  of  stone 
But  of  white  summer  clouds,  and  blown 
Into  this  little  mist  of  rhyme  ! 


VITTORIA  COLONNA. 

Vittoria  Colonna,  on  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band, the  Marchese  di  Pescara,  retired  to  her 
castle  at  Ischia  (lnarime),  and  there  wrote  the 
Ode  upon  his  death,  which  gained  her  the  title 
of  Divine. 

Once  more,  once  more,  lnarime, 

I see  thy  purple  hills  ! — once  more 
I hear  the  billows  of  the  bay 

Wash  the  white  pebbles  on  thy  shore. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  RAIN-IN-THE-FACE. 


375 


High  o’er  the  sea-surge  and  the  sands, 
Like  a great  galleon  wrecked  and 
cast 

Ashore  by  storms,  thy  castle  stands, 

A mouldering  landmark  of  the  Past. 

Upon  its  terrace-walk  I see 
A phantom  gliding  to  and  fro  ; 

It  is  Colonna,  — it  is  she 

Who  lived  and  loved  so  long  ago. 

Pescara’s  beautiful  young  wife, 

The  type  of  perfect  womanhood, 
Whose  life  was  love,  the  life  of  life, 
That  time  and  change  and  death  with- 
stood. 

For  death,  that  breaks  the  marriage 
band 

In  others,  only  closer  pressed 
The  wedding-ring  upon  her  hand 

And  closer  locked  and  barred  her 
breast. 

She  knew  the  life-long  martyrdom, 

The  weariness,  the  endless  pain 
Of  waiting  for  some  one  to  come 
Who  nevermore  would  come  again. 

The  shadows  of  the  chestnut-trees, 

The  odor  of  the  orange  blooms, 

The  song  of  birds,  and,  more  than 
these, 

The  silence  of  deserted  rooms  ; 

The  respiration  of  the  sea, 

The  soft  caresses  of  the  air, 

All  things  in  nature  seemed  to  be 
But  ministers  of  her  despair  ; 

Till  the  o’erburdened  heart,  so  long 
Imprisoned  in  itself,  found  vent 
And  voice  in  one  impassioned  song 
Of  inconsolable  lament. 

Then  as  the  sun,  though  hidden  from 
sight, 

Transmutes  to  gold  the  leaden  mist, 
Her  life  was  interfused  with  light, 

From  realms  that,  though  unseen, 
exist. 

Inarime  ! Inarime  ! 

Thy  castle  on  the  crags  above 
In  dust  shall  crumble  and  decay, 

But  not  the  memory  of  her  love. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  RAIN-IN- 
THE-FACE. 

In  that  desolate  land  and  lone, 

Where  the  Big  Horn  and  Yellowstone 
Roar  down  their  mountain  path, 

By  their  fires  the  Sioux  Chiefs 
Muttered  their  woes  and  griefs 
And  the  menace  of  their  wrath. 

“Revenge  !”  cried  Rain-in-the-Face, 

‘ ‘ Revenge  upon  all  the  race 
Of  the  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair  ! ” 
And  the  mountains  dark  and  high 
From  their  crags  re-echoed  the  cry 
Of  his  anger  and  despair. 

In  the  meadow,  spreading  wide 
By  woodland  and  riverside 
The  Indian  village  stood  ; 

All  was  silent  as  a dream, 

Save  the  rushing  of  the  stream 
And  the  blue-jay  in  the  wood. 

In  his  war  paint  and  his  beads, 

Like  a bison  among  the  reeds, 

In  ambush  the  Sitting  Bull 
Lay  with  three  thousand  braves 
Crouched  in  the  clefts  and  caves, 
Savage,  unmerciful  ! 

Into  the  fatal  snare 
The  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair 
And  his  three  hundred  men 
Dashed  headlong,  sword  in  hand  ; 

But  of  that  gallant  band 
Not  one  returned  again. 

The  sudden  darkness  of  death 
Overwhelmed  them  like  the  breath 
And  smoke  of  a furnace  fire: 

By  the  river’s  bank,  and  between 
The  rocks  of  the  ravine, 

They  lay  in  their  bloody  attire. 

But  the  foemen  fled  in  the  night, 

And  Rain-in-the-Face,  in  his  flight, 
Uplifted  high  in  air 
As  a ghastly  trophy,  bore 
The  brave  heart,  that  beat  no  more, 

Of  the  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair. 

Whose  was  the  right  and  the  wrong  ? 
Sing  it,  0 funeral  song, 

With  a voice  that  is  full  of  tears, 
And  say  that  our  broken  faith 
Wrought  all  this  ruin  and  scathe, 

In  the  Year  of  a Hundred  Years. 


376 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


TO  THE  RIVER  YVETTE. 

O lovely  river  of  Yvette  ! 

0 darling  river  ! like  a bride, 

Some  dimpled,  bashful,  fair  Lisette, 
Thou  goest  to  wed  the  Orge’s  tide. 

Maineourt,  and  lordly  Dampierre, 

See  and  salute  thee  on  thy  way, 

And,  with  a blessing  and  a prayer, 

Ring  the  sweet  bells  of  St.  Forget. 

The  valley  of  Chevreuse  in  vain 

Would  hold  thee  in  its  fond  embrace  ; 
Thou  glidest  from  its  arms  again 
And  hurriest  on  with  swifter  pace. 

Thou  wilt  not  stay  ; with  restless  feet 
Pursuing  still  thine  onward  flight, 
Thou  goest  as  one  in  haste  to  meet 
Her  sole  desire,  her  heart’s  delight. 

0 lovely  river  of  Yvette  ! 

0 darling  stream  ! on  balanced  wings 
The  wood-birds  sang  the  chansonnette 
That  here  a wandering  poet  sings. 


THE  EMPEROR’S  GLOVE. 

Combien  faudrait-il  de  peaux  d’Espagne  pour 
faire  un  gant  de  cette  grandeur  ? A play  upon 
the  words  gant,  a glove,  and  Gaud,  the  French 
for  Ghent. 

On  St.  Bavon’s  tower,  commanding 
Half  of  Flanders,  his  domain, 

Charles  the  Emperor  once  was  standing, 
While  beneath  him  on  the  landing 
Stood  Duke  Alva  and  his  train. 

Like  a print  in  books  of  fables, 

Or  a model  made  for  show, 

With  its  pointed  roofs  and  gables, 
Dormer  windows,  scrolls  and  labels, 

Lay  the  city  far  below. 

Through  its  squares  and  streets  and  alleys 
Poured  the  populace  of  Ghent; 

As  a routed  army  rallies, 

Or  as  rivers  run  through  valleys, 
Hurrying  to  their  homes  they  went. 

“ Nest  of  Lutheran  misbelievers  ! ” 
Cried  Duke  Alva  as  he  gazed  ; 

1 4 Haunt  of  traitors  and  deceivers, 
Stronghold  of  insurgent  weavers, 

Let  it  to  the  ground  be  razed  ! ” 


On  the  Emperor’s  cap  the  feather 
Nods,  as  laughing  he  replies: 

“ How  many  skins  of  Spanish  leather, 
Think  you,  would,  if  stitched  together, 
Make  a glove  of  such  a size  ? ” 


A BALLAD  OF  THE  FRENCH 
FLEET. 

OCTOBER,  1746. 

Mr.  Thomas  Prince  loquitur. 

A fleet  with  flags  arrayed 
Sailed  from  the  port  of  Brest, 
And  the  Admiral’s  ship  displayed 
The  signal : “ Steer  southwest.” 
For  this  Admiral  D’Anville 
Had  sworn  by  cross  and  crown 
To  ravage  with  fire  and  steel 
Our  helpless  Boston  Town. 

There  were  rumors  in  the  street, 

In  the  houses  there  was  fear 
Of  the  coming  of  the  fleet, 

And  the  danger  hovering  near. 
And  while  from  mouth  to  mouth 
Spread  the  tidings  of  dismay, 

I stood  in  the  Old  South, 

Saying  humbly  : “ Let  us  pray  ! 

“ 0 Lord  ! we  would  not  advise  ; 

But  if  in  thy  Providence 
A tempest  should  arise 

To  drive  the  French  Fleet  hence, 
And  scatter  it  far  and  wide, 

Or  sink  it  in  the  sea, 

We  should  be  satisfied, 

And  thine  the  glory  be.” 

This  was  the  prayer  1 made, 

For  my  soul  was  all  on  flame, 
And  even  as  I prayed 

The  answering  tempest  came  ; 

It  came  with  a mighty  power, 
Shaking  the  windows  and  walls, 
And  tolling  the  bell  in  the  tower, 
As  it  tolls  at  funerals. 

The  lightning  suddenly 

Unsheathed  its  flaming  sword, 
And  I cried  : “ Stand  still,  and  see 
The  salvation  of  the  Lord  ! ” 

The  heavens  were  black  with  cloud, 
The  sea  was  white  with  hail, 

And  ever  more  fierce  and  loud 
Blew  the  October  gale. 


THE  LEAP  OF  ROUSHAN  BEG. 


377 


The  fleet  it  overtook, 

And  the  broad  sails  in  the  van 

Like  the  tents  of  Cushan  shook, 

Or  the  curtains  of  Midian. 

Down  on  the  reeling  decks 

Crashed  the  o’erwhelming  seas  ; 

Ah,  never  were  there  wrecks 
So  pitiful  as  these  ! 

Like  a potter’s  vessel  broke 
The  great  ships  of  the  line  ; 

They  were  carried  away  as  a smoke, 
Or  sank  like  lead  in  the  brine. 

0 Lord  ! before  thy  path 

They  vanished  and  ceased  to  be, 

When  thou  didst  walk  in  wrath 
With  thine  horses  through  the  sea  ! 


THE  LEAP  OF  ROUSHAN  BEG. 

Mounted  on  Kyrat  strong  and  fleet, 
His  chestnut  steed  with  four  white  feet, 
Roushan  Beg,  called  Kurroglou, 

Son  of  the  road  and  bandit  chief, 
Seeking  refuge  and  relief, 

Up  the  mountain  pathway  flew. 

Such  was  Kyrat’s  wondrous  speed, 
Never  yet  could  any  steed 

Reach  the  dust-cloud  in  his  course. 
More  than  maiden , more  than  wife, 
More  than  gold  and  next  to  life 

Roushan  the  Robber  loved  his  horse. 

In  the  land  that  lies  beyond 
Erzeroum  and  Trebizond, 

Garden -girt  his  fortress  stood  ; 
Plundered  khan,  or  caravan 
Journeying  north  from  Koordistan, 
Gave  him  wealth  and  wine  and  food. 

Seven  hundred  and  fourscore 
Men  at  arms  his  livery  wore, 

Did  his  bidding  night  and  day. 

Now,  through  regions  all  unknown, 

He  was  wandering,  lost,  alone, 

Seeking  without  guide  his  way. 

Suddenly  the  pathway  ends, 

Sheer  the  precipice  descends, 

Loud  the  torrent  roars  unseen  ; 
Thirty  feet  from  side  to  side 
Yawns  the  chasm  ; on  air  must  ride 
He  who  crosses  this  ravine. 

Following  close  in  his  pursuit, 

At  the  precipice’s  foot, 


Reyhan  the  Arab  of  Orfali 
Halted  with  his  hundred  men, 
Shouting  upward  from  the  glen, 

“ La  Illah  ilia  Allah!” 

Gently  Roushan  Beg  caressed 
Kyrat’s  forehead,  neck,  and  breast  ; 

Kissed  him  upon  both  his  eyes  ; 
Sang  to  him  in  his  wild  way, 

As  upon  the  topmost  spray 
Sings  a bird  before  it  flies. 

“0  my  Kyrat,  O my  steed, 

Round  and  slender  as  a reed, 

Carry  me  this  peril  through  ! 

Satin  housings  shall  be  thine, 

Shoes  of  gold,  O Kyrat  mine, 

O thou  soul  of  Kurroglou  ! 

‘ £ Soft  thy  skin  as  silken  skein, 

Soft  as  woman’s  hair  thy  mane, 
Tender  are  thine  eyes  and  true  ; 

All  thy  hoofs  like  ivory  shine, 
Polished  bright ; O,  life  of  mine, 
Leap,  and  rescue  Kurroglou  ! ” 

Kyrat,  then,  the  strong  and  fleet, 
Drew  together  his  four  white  feet. 
Paused  a moment  on  the  verge, 
Measured  with  his  eye  the  space, 

And  into  the  air’s  embrace 

Leaped  as  leaps  the  ocean  surge. 

As  the  ocean  surge  o’er  sand 
Bears  a swimmer  safe  to  land, 

Kyrat  safe  his  rider  bore  ; 

Rattling  down  the  deep  abyss 
Fragments  of  the  precipice 
Rolled  like  pebbles  on  a shore. 

Roushan’s  tasselled  cap  of  red 
Trembled  not  upon  his  head, 

Careless  sat  he  and  upright ; 
Neither  hand  nor  bridle  shook. 

Nor  his  head  he  turned  to  look, 

As  he  galloped  out  of  sight. 

Flash  of  harness  in  the  air, 

Seen  a moment  like  the  glare 

Of  a sword  drawn  from  its  sheath  ; 
Thus  the  phantom  horseman  passed, 
And  the  shadow  that  he  cast 
Leaped  the  cataract  underneath. 

Reyhan  the  Arab  held  his  breath 
While  this  vision  of  life  and  death 
Passed  above  him.  “ Allahu  ! ” 


378 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


Cried  he.  “ In  all  Koordistan 
Lives  there  not  so  brave  a man 
As  this  Robber  Kurroglou  ! ” 


HAROUN  AL  RASCHID. 

One  day,  Haroun  A1  Raschid  read 
A book  wherein  the  poet  said  : — ■ 

“ Where  are  the  kings,  and  where  the  rest 
Of  those  who  once  the  world  possessed  ? 

‘‘They  're  gone  with  all  their  pomp  and 
show, 

They  're  gone  the  way  that  thou  shalt  go. 

“ 0 thou  who  choosest  for  thy  share 
The  world,  and  what  the  world  calls  fair, 

“ Take  all  that  it  can  give  or  lend, 

But  know  that  death  is  at  the  end  ! ” 

Haroun  A1  Raschid  bowed  his  head  : 
Tears  fell  upon  the  page  he  read. 


KING  TRISANKU. 

Viswamitra  the  Magician, 

By  his  spells  and  incantations, 

Up  to  Indra’s  realms  elysian 

Raised  Trisanku,  king  of  nations. 

Indra  and  the  gods  offended 

Hurled  him  downward,  and  descending 
In  the  air  he  hung  suspended, 

With  these  equal  powers  contending. 

Thus  by  aspirations  lifted, 

By  misgivings  downward  driven, 
Human  hearts  are  tossed  and  drifted 
Midway  between  earth  and  heaven. 


A WRAITH  IN  THE  MIST. 

“Sir,  I should  build  me  a fortification,  if  I 
came  to  live  here.”  — Boswell’s  Johnson. 

On  the  green  little  isle  of  Inchkenneth, 
Who  is  it  that  walks  by  the  shore, 

So  gay  with  his  Highland  blue  bonnet, 
So  brave  with  his  targe  and  claymore  ? 

His  form  is  the  form  of  a giant, 

But  his  face  wears  an  aspect  of  pain  ; 
Can  this  be  the  Laird  of  I nchkenneth  ? 
Can  this  be  Sir  Allan  McLean  ? 


Ah,  no  ! It  is  only  the  Rambler, 

The  Idler,  who  lives  in  Bolt  Court, 
And  who  says,  were  he  Laird  of  Inchken- 
neth, 

He  would  wall  himself  round  with  a 
fort. 


THE  THREE  KINGS. 

Three  Kings  came  riding  from  far  away, 

Melchior  and  Gaspar  and  Baltasar  ; 

Three  Wise  Men  out  of  the  East  were  they. 

And  they  travelled  by  night  and  they  slept 
by  day, 

For  their  guide  was  a beautiful,  won- 
derful star. 

The  star  was  so  beautiful,  large,  and  clear. 

That  all  the  other  stars  of  the  sky 

Became  a white  mist  in  the  atmosphere, 

And  by  this  they  knew  that  the  coming 
was  near 

Of  the  Prince  foretold  in  the  prophecy. 

Three  caskets  they  bore  on  their  saddle- 
bows, 

Three  caskets  of  gold  with  golden  keys ; 

Their  robes  were  of  crimson  silk  with  rows 

Of  bells  and  pomegranates  and  furbelows, 

Their  turbans  like  blossoming  almond- 
trees. 

And  so  the  Three  Kings  rode  into  the 
West, 

Through  the  dusk  of  night,  over  hill 
and  dell, 

And  sometimes  they  nodded  with  beard 
on  breast, 

And  sometimes  talked,  as  they  paused  to 
rest, 

With  the  people  they  met  at  some  way- 
side  well. 

‘ ‘ Of  the  child  that  is  born,  ” said  Baltasar, 

“Good  people,  I pray  you,  tell  us  the 
news  ; 

For  we  in  the  East  have  seen  his  star, 

And  have  ridden  fast,  and  have  ridden  far, 

To  find  and  worship  the  King  of  the 
Jews." 

And  the  people  answered,  “You  ask  in 
vain  ; 

We  know  of  no  king  but  Herod  the 
Great ! " 


THE  WHITE  CZAR. 


379 


They  thought  the  Wise  Men  were  men 
insane, 

As  they  spurred  their  horses  across  the 
plain, 

Like  riders  in  haste,  and  who  cannot 
wait. 

And  when  they  came  to  Jerusalem, 
Herod  the  Great,  who  had  heard  this 
thing, 

Sent  for  the  Wise  Men  and  questioned 
them  ; 

And  said,  “Go  down  unto  Bethlehem, 
Andbring  metidings  oftliis  newking.” 

So  they  rode  away  ; and  the  star  stood 
still. 

The  only  one  in  the  gray  of  morn  ; 

Yes,  it  stopped,  it  stood  still  of  its  own 
free  will, 

Right  over  Bethlehem  on  the  hill, 

The  city  of  David  where  Christ  was 
born. 

And  the  Three  Kings  rode  through  the 
gate  and  the  guard, 

Through  the  silent  street,  till  their 
horses  turned 

And  neighed  as  they  entered  the  great 
inn-yard  ; 

But  the  windows  were  closed,  and  the 
doors  were  barred, 

And  only  a light  in  the  stable  burned. 

A.nd  cradled  there  in  the  scented  hay, 

In  the  air  made  sweet  by  the  breath  of 
kine, 

The  little  child  in  the  manger  lay, 

The  child,  that  would  be  king  one  day 
Of  a kingdom  not  human  but  divine. 

His  mother  Mary  of  Nazareth 

Sat  watching  beside  his  place  of  rest, 

Watching  the  even  flow  of  his  breath, 

For  the  joy  of  life  and  the  terror  of 
death 

Were  mingled  together  in  her  breast. 

They  laid  their  offerings  at  his  feet  : 

The  gold  was  their  tribute  to  a King, 

The  frankincense,  with  its  odor  sweet, 

Was  for  the  Priest,  the  Paraclete, 

The  myrrh  for  the  body’s  burying. 

And  the  mother  wondered  and  bowed 
her  head, 

And  sat  as  still  as  a statue  of  stone  ; 


Her  heart  was  troubled  yet  comforted, 

Remembering  what  the  Angel  had  said 
Of  an  endless  reign  and  of  David’s 
throne. 

Then  the  Kings  rode  out  of  the  city  gate, 
With  a clatter  of  hoofs  in  proud  array  ; 

But  they  went  not  back  to  Herod  the 
Great, 

For  they  knew  his  malice  and  feared  his 
hate, 

And  returned  to  their  homes  by  an- 
other way. 


SONG. 

Stay,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest ; 
PI  ome -keeping  hearts  are  happiest, 

For  those  that  wander  they  know  not 
where 

Are  full  of  trouble  and  full  of  care  ; 

To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Weary  and  homesick  and  distressed, 
They  wander  east,  they  wander  west, 
And  are  baffled  and  beaten  and  blown 
about 

By  the  winds  of  the  wilderness  of  doubt ; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Then  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest ; 
The  bird  is  safest  in  its  nest  ; 

O’er  all  that  flutter  their  wings  and  fly 
A hawk  is  hovering  in  the  sky  ; 

To  stay  at  home  is  best. 


THE  WHITE  CZAR. 

The  White  Czar  is  Peter  the  Great.  Baty- 
ushka, Father  dear , and  Gosudar,  Sovereign , 
are  titles  the  Russian  people  are  fond  of  giving 
to  the  Czar  in  their  popular  songs. 

Dost  thou  see  on  the  rampart’s  height 
That  wreath  of  mist,  in  the  light 
Of  the  midnight  moon  ? 0,  hist  ! 

It  is  not  a wreath  of  mist ; 

It  is  the  Czar,  the  White  Czar, 
Batyushka  ! Gosudar  1 

He  has  heard,  among  the  dead, 

The  artillery  roll  o’erhead  ; 

The  drums  and  the  tramp  of  feet 
Of  his  soldiery  in  the  street ; 

He  is  awake  ! the  White  Czar, 
Batyushka  ! Gosudar  J 


380 


A BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


He  has  heard  in  the  grave  the  cries 
Of  his  people  : “Awake  ! arise  ! ” 

He  has  rent  the  gold  brocade 
Whereof  his  shroud  was  made  ; 

He  is  risen  ! the  White  Czar, 
Batyushka  ! Gosudar  ! 

From  the  Volga  and  the  Don 
He  has  led  his  armies  on, 

Over  river  and  morass, 

Over  desert  and  mountain  pass  ; 

The  Czar,  the  Orthodox  Czar, 
Batyushka  ! Gosudar  ! 

He  looks  from  the  mountain-chain 
Toward  the  seas,  that  cleave  in  twain 
The  continents  ; his  hand 
Points  southward  o’er  the  land 
Of  Roumili ! 0 Czar, 

Batyushka  ! Gosudar  ! 

And  the  words  break  from  his  lips  : 
“1  am  the  builder  of  ships, 

And  my  ships  shall  sail  these  seas 
To  the  Pillars  of  Hercules  ! 

I say  it  ; the  White  Czar, 

Batyushka  ! Gosudar  ! 


“ The  Bosphorus  shall  be  free  ; 

It  shall  make  room  for  me  ; 

And  the  gates  of  its  water-streets 
Be  unbarred  before  my  fleets. 

I say  it ; the  White  Czar, 

Batyushka  ! Gosudar  ! 

“And  the  Christian  shall  no  more 
Be  crushed,  as  heretofore. 

Beneath  thine  iron  rule, 

0 Sultan  of  Istamboul ! 

1 swear  it ; I the  Czar, 

Batyushka ! Gosudar  ! 

DELIA. 

Sweet  as  the  tender  fragrance  that  sur- 
vives, 

When  martyred  flowers  breathe  out  their 
little  lives, 

Sweet  as  a song  that  once  consoled  our 
pain, 

But  never  will  be  sung  to  us  again, 

Is  thy  remembrance.  Now  the  hour  of 
rest 

Hath  come  to  thee.  Sleep,  darling  ; it 
is  best. 


A BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 

PART  SECOND. 


NATURE. 

Asa  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o’er, 
Leads  by  the  hand  her  little  child  to 
bed, 

Half  willing,  half  reluctant  to  be  led, 
And  leave  his  broken  playthings  on  the 
floor, 

Still  gazing  at  them  through  the  open 
door, 

Nor  wholly  reassured  and  comforted 
By  promises  of  others  in  their  stead, 
Which,  though  more  splendid,  may 
not  please  him  more  ; 

So  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes  away 
Our  playthings  one  by  one,  and  by  the 
hand 

Leads  us  to  rest  so  gently,  that  we  go 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wish  to  go  or  stay, 
Being  too  full  of  sleep  to  understand 
How  far  the  unknown  transcends  the 
what  we  know. 


IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  TAR- 
RYTOWN. 

Here  lies  the  gentle  humorist,  who  died 

In  the  bright  Indian  Summer  of  his 
fame  ! 

A simple  stone,  with  but  a date  and 
name, 

Marks  his  secluded  resting-place  be- 
side 

The  river  that  he  loved  and  glorified. 

Here  in  the  autumn  of  his  days  he 
came, 

But  the  dry  leaves  of  life  were  all  aflame 

With  tints  that  brightened  and  were 
multiplied. 

How  swTeet  a life  was  his  ; how  sweet  a 
death  ! 

Living,  to  wing  with  mirth  the  weary 
hours, 

Or  with  romantic  tales  the  heart  to 
cheer ; 


PARKER  CLEAVELAND. 


381 


D}ring,  to  leave  a memory  like  the  breath 
Of  summers  full  of  sunshine  and  of 
showers, 

A grief  and  gladness  in  the  atmosphere. 


ELIOT’S  OAK. 

Thou  ancient  oak  ! whose  myriad  leaves 
are  loud 

With  sounds  of  unintelligible  speech, 
Sounds  as  of  surges  on  a shingly  beach, 
Or  multitudinous  murmurs  of  a crowd ; 

With  some  mysterious  gift  of  tongues 
endowed, 

Thou  speakest  a different  dialect  to 
each ; 

To  me  a language  that  no  man  can  teach, 
Of  a lost  race,  long  vanished  like  a 
cloud. 

For  underneath  thy  shade,  in  days  remote, 
Seated  like  Abraham  at  eventide 
Beneath  the  oaks  of  Mamre,  the  un- 
known 

Apostle  of  the  Indians,  Eliot,  wrote 
His  Bible  in  a language  that  hath  died 
And  is  forgotten,  save  by  thee  alone. 


THE  DESCENT  OF  THE  MUSES. 

Nine  sisters,  beautiful  in  form  and 
face, 

Came  from  their  con  vent  on  the  shining 
heights 

Of  Pierus,  the  mountain  of  delights, 

To  dwell  among  the  people  at  its  base. 

Then  seemed  the  world  to  change.  All 
time  and  space, 

Splendor  of  cloudless  days  and  starry 
nights, 

And  men  and  manners,  and  all  sounds 
and  sights, 

Had  a new  meaning,  a diviner  grace. 

Proud  were  these  sisters,  but  were  not  too 
proud 

To  teach  in  schools  of  little  country 
towns 

Science  and  song,  and  all  the  arts  that 
please  ; 

So  that  while  housewives  span,  and 
farmers  ploughed, 

Their  comely  daughters,  clad  in  home- 
spun  gowns, 

Learned  the  sweet  songs  of  the  Pier- 
ides. 


VENICE. 

White  swan  of  cities,  slumbering  in  thy 
nest 

So  wonderfully  built  among  the  reeds 

Of  the  lagoon,  that  fences  thee  and 
feeds, 

As  sayeth  thy  old  historian  and  thy 
guest  ! 

White  water-lily,  cradled  and  caressed 

By  ocean  streams,  and  from  the  silt 
and  weeds 

Lifting  thy  golden  filaments  and  seeds, 

Thy  sun -illumined  spires,  thy  crown 
and  crest  ! 

White  phantom  city,  whose  untrodden 
streets 

Are  rivers,  and  whose  pavements  are 
the  shifting 

Shadows  of  palaces  and  strips  of  sky  ; 

I wait  to  see  thee  vanish  like  the  fleets 

Seen  in  mirage,  or  towers  of  cloud  up- 
lifting 

In  air  their  unsubstantial  masonry. 


THE  POETS. 

0 YE  dead  Poets,  who  are  living  still 
Immortal  in  your  verse,  though  life  be 
fled, 

And  ye,  0 living  Poets,  who  are  dead 
Though  ye  are  living,  if  neglect  can  kill, 

Tell  me  if  in  the  darkest  hours  of  ill, 
With  drops  of  anguish  falling  fast  and 
red 

From  the  sharp  crown  of  thorns  upon 
your  head, 

Ye  were  not  glad  your  errand  to  fulfil  ? 

Yes  ; for  the  gift  and  ministry  of  Song 
Have  something  in  them  so  divinely 
sweet, 

It  can  assuage  the  bitterness  of  wrong ; 

Not  in  the  clamor  of  the  crowded  street, 
Not  in  the  shouts  and  plaudits  of  the 
throng, 

But  in  ourselves,  are  triumph  and 
defeat. 


PARKER  CLEAVELAND. 

WRITTEN  ON  REVISITING  BRUNSWICK  IN 
THE  SUMMER  OF  1875. 

Among  the  many  lives  that  I have  known, 
None  I remember  more  serene  and 
sweet, 


382 


A BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


More  rounded  in  itself  and  more  com- 
plete, 

Than  his,  who  lies  beneath  this  funeral 
stone. 

These  pines,  that  murmur  in  low  mono- 
tone, 

These  walks  frequented  by  scholastic 
feet, 

Were  all  his  world  ; but  in  this  calm 
retreat 

For  him  the  Teacher’s  chair  became 
a throne. 

With  fond  affection  memory  loves  to  dwell 

On  the  old  days,  when  his  example 
made 

A pastime  of  the  toil  of  tongue  and  pen  ; 

And  now,  amid  the  groves  he  loved  so  well 

That  naught  could  lure  him  from  their 
grateful  shade, 

He  sleeps,  but  wakes  elsewhere,  for 
God  hath  said,  Amen  ! 


THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

It  is  the  Harvest  Moon  ! On  gilded  vanes 

And  roofs  of  villages,  on  woodland 
crests 

And  their  aerial  neighborhoods  of  nests 

Deserted,  on  the  curtained  window- 
panes 

Of  rooms  where  children  sleep,  on  country 
lanes 

And  harvest-fields,  its  mystic  splendor 
rests  ! 

Gone  are  the  birds  that  were  our  sum- 
mer guests, 

With  the  last  sheaves  return  the  labor- 
ing wains  ! 

All  things  are  symbols : the  external 
shows 

Of  Nature  have  their  image  in  the  mind, 

As  flowers  and  fruits  and  falling  of  the 
leaves  ; 

The  song-birds  leave  us  at  the  summer’s 
close, 

Only  the  empty  nests  are  left  behind, 

And  pipings  of  the  quail  among  the 
sheaves. 


TO  THE  RIVER  RHONE. 

Thou  Royal  River,  born  of  sun  and  shower 
In  chambers  purple  with  the  Alpine 
glow, 


Wrapped  in  the  spotless  ermine  of  the 
snow 

And  rocked  by  tempests  ! — at  the 
appointed  hour 

Forth,  like  a steel-clad  horseman  from  a 
tower, 

With  clang  and  clink  of  harness  dost 
thou  go 

To  meet  thy  vassal  torrents,  that  be- 
low 

Rush  to  receive  thee  and  obey  thy 
power. 

And  now  thou  movest  in  triumphal 
march, 

A king  among  the  rivers!  On  thy 
way 

A hundred  towns  await  and  welcome 
thee ; 

Bridges  uplift  for  thee  the  stately 
arch, 

Vineyards  encircle  thee  with  garlands 

gay, 

And  fleets  attend  thy  progress  to  the 
sea ! 


THE  THREE  SILENCES  OF  MOLI- 
NOS. 

TO  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

Three  Silences  there  are  : the  first  of 
speech, 

The  second  of  desire,  the  third  of 
thought ; 

This  is  the  lore  a Spanish  monk,  dis- 
traught 

With  dreams  and  visions,  was  the  first 
to  teach. 

These  Silences,  commingling  each  with 
each, 

Made  up  the  perfect  Silence,  that  he 
sought 

And  prayed  for,  and  wherein  at  times 
he  caught 

Mysterious  sounds  from  realms  beyond 
our  reach. 

0 thou,  whose  daily  life  anticipates 

The  life  to  come,  and  in  whose  thought 
and  word 

The  spiritual  world  preponderates, 

Hermit  of  Amesbury  ! thou  too  hast 
heard 

Voices  and  melodies  from  beyond  the 
gates, 

And  speakest  only  when  thy  soul  is 
stirred  ! 


BOSTON. 


383 


THE  TWO  RIVERS. 

I. 

Slowly  the  hour-hand  of  the  clock  moves 
round  ; 

So  slowly  that  no  human  eye  hath 
power 

To  see  it  move  ! Slowly  in  shine  or 
shower 

The  painted  ship  above  it,  homeward 
bound, 

Sails,  but  seems  motionless,  as  if  aground ; 
Yet  both  arrive  at  last ; and  in  his  tower 
The  slumberous  watchman  wakes  and 
strikes  the  hour, 

A mellow,  measured,  melancholy 
sound. 

Midnight ! the  outpost  of  advancing  day ! 
The  frontier  town  and  citadel  of  night! 
The  watershed  of  Time,  from  which 
the  streams 

Of  Yesterday  and  To-morrow  take  their 
way, 

One  to  the  land  of  promise  and  of  light, 
One  to  the  land  of  darkness  and  of 
dreams  ! 

II. 

0 River  of  Yesterday,  with  current  swift 
Through  chasms  descending,  and  soon 
lost  to  sight, 

I do  not  care  to  followr  in  their  flight 
The  faded  leaves,  that  on  thy  bosom 
drift ! 

0 River  of  To-morrow,  I uplift 

Mine  eyes,  and  thee  I follow,  as  the 
night 

Wanes  into  morning,  and  the  dawn- 
ing light 

Broadens,  and  all  the  shadows  fade 
and  shift ! 

1 follow,  follow,  where  thy  waters  run 
Through  unfrequented,  unfamiliar 

fields, 

Fragrant  with  flowers  and  musical 
with  song  ; 

Still  follow,  follow  ; sure  to  meet  the  sun, 
And  confident,  that  what  the  future 
yields 

Will  be  the  right,  unless  myself  be 
wrong. 

III. 

Yet  not  in  vain,  0 River  of  Yesterday, 
Through  chasms  of  darkness  to  the 
deep  descending, 


I heard  thee  sobbing  in  the  rain,  and 
blending 

Thy  voice  with  other  voices  far  away. 

I called  to  thee,  and  yet  thou  wouldst 
not  stay, 

But  turbulent,  and  with  thyself  con- 
tending, 

And  torrent-like  thy  force  on  pebbles 
spending, 

Thou  wouldst  not  listen  to  a poet’s  lay. 

Thoughts,  like  a loud  and  sudden  rush 
of  wings, 

Regrets  and  recollections  of  things  past, 

With  hints  and  prophecies  of  things 
to  be, 

And  inspirations,  which,  could  they  be 
things, 

And  stay  with  us,  and  we  could  hold 
them  fast, 

Were  our  good  angels,  — these  I owe 
to  thee. 

IV. 

And  thou,  0 River  of  To-morrow,  flowing 

Between  thy  narrow  adamantine  walls, 

But  beautiful,  and  white  with  water- 
falls, 

And  wreaths  of  mist,  like  hands  the 
pathway  showing  ; 

I hear  the  trumpets  of  the  morning  blow- 
ing* 

I hear  thy  mighty  voice,  that  calls  and 
calls, 

And  see,  as  Ossian  saw  in  Morven’s 
halls, 

Mysterious  phantoms,  coming,  beck- 
oning, going  ! 

It  is  the  mystery  of  the  unknown 

That  fascinates  us  ; we  are  children 
still, 

Wayward  and  wistful  ; with  one  hand 
we  cling 

To  the  familiar  things  we  call  our  own, 

And  with  the  other,  resolute  of  will, 

Grope  in  the  dark  for  what  the  day 
will  bring. 


BOSTON. 

St.  Botolph’s  Town  ! Hither  across 
the  plains 

And  fens  of  Lincolnshire,  in  garb  au- 
stere, 

There  came  a Saxon  monk,  and  founded 
here 


384 


A BOOK  OF  SONNETS. 


A Priory,  pillaged  by  marauding  Danes, 

So  that  thereof  no  vestige  now  remains  ; 

Only  a name,  that,  spoken  loud  and 
clear, 

And  echoed  in  another  hemisphere, 

Survives  the  sculptured  walls  and 
painted  panes. 

St.  Botolph’s  Town  ! Far  over  leagues 
of  land 

And  leagues  of  sea  looks  forth  its  no- 
ble tower, 

And  far  around  the  chiming  bells  are 
heard  ; 

So  may  that  sacred  name  forever  stand 

Alandmark,  andas}rmbolof  the  power, 

That  lies  concentred  in  a single  word. 


ST.  JOHN’S,  CAMBRIDGE. 

I stand  beneath  the  tree,  whose  branches 
shade 

Thy  western  window,  Chapel  of  St. 
John  ! 

And  hear  its  leaves  repeat  their  benison 

On  him,  whose  hand  thy  stones  me- 
morial laid  ; 

Then  I remember  one  of  whom  was  said 

In  the  world’s  darkest  hour,  “ Behold 
thy  son  ! ” 

And  see  him  living  still,  and  wander- 
ing on 

And  waiting  for  the  advent  long  de- 
layed. 

Not  only  tongues  of  the  apostles  teach 

Lessons  of  love  and  light,  but  these 
expanding 

And  sheltering  boughs  with  all  their 
leaves  implore, 

And  say  in  language  clear  as  human 
speech, 

“ The  peace  of  God,  that  passeth  un- 
derstanding, 

Be  and  abide  with  you  forevermore  ! ” 


MOODS. 

0 that  a Song  would  sing  itself  to  me 
Out  of  the  heart  of  Nature,  or  the  heart 
Of  man,  the  child  of  Nature,  not  of  Art, 
Fresh  as  the  morning,  salt  as  the  salt 
sea, 

With  just  enough  of  bitterness  to  be 
A medicine  to  this  sluggish  mood,  and 
start 


The  life-blood  in  my  veins,  and  so 
impart 

Healing  and  help  in  this  dull  lethargy  ! 

Alas  ! not  always  doth  the  breath  of  song 

Breathe  on  us.  It  is  like  the  wind 
that  bloweth 

At  its  own  will,  not  ours,  nor  tarries 
long; 

We  hear  the  sound  thereof,  but  no  man 
knoweth 

From  whence  it  comes,  so  sudden  and 
swift  and  strong, 

Nor  whither  in  its  wayward  course  it 
goeth. 


WOODSTOCK  PARK. 

Here  in  a little  rustic  hermitage 

Alfred  the  Saxon  King,  Alfred  the 
Great, 

Postponed  the  cares  of  king-craft  to 
translate 

The  Consolations  of  the  Roman  sage. 

Here  Geoffrey  Chaucer  in  his  ripe  old  age 

Wrote  the  unrivalled  Tales,  which  soon 
or  late 

The  venturous  hand  that  strives  to 
imitate 

Vanquished  must  fall  on  the  unfin- 
ished page. 

Two  kings  were  they,  who  ruled  by  right 
divine, 

And  both  supreme  ; one  in  the  realm 
of  Truth, 

One  in  the  realm  of  Fiction  and  of 
Song. 

What  prince  hereditary  of  their  line, 

Uprising  in  the  strength  and  flush  of 
youth, 

Their  glory  shall  inherit  and  prolong  ? 


THE  FOUR  PRINCESSES  AT 
WILNA. 

A PHOTOGRAPH. 

Sweet  faces,  that  from  pictured  case- 
ments  lean 

As  from  a castle  window,  looking  down 

On  some  gay  pageant  passing  through 
a town, 

Yourselves  the  fairest  figures  in  the 
scene  ; 

With  what  a gentle  grace,  with  what 
serene 


THE  BROKEN  OAR. 


385 


Unconsciousness  ye  wear  the  triple 
crown 

Of  youth  and  beauty  and  the  fair  re- 
nown 

Of  a great  name,  that  ne’er  hath  tar- 
nished been  ! 

From  your  soft  eyes,  so  innocent  and 
sweet, 

Four  spirits,  sweet  and  innocent  as 
they, 

Gaze  on  the  world  below,  the  shy  above; 

Hark  ! there  is  some  one  singing  in  the 
street  ; 

“Faith,  Hope,  and  Love  ! these  three,” 
he  seems  to  say  ; 

“ These  three  ; and  greatest  of  the  three 
is  Love.” 


HOLIDAYS. 

The  holiest  of  all  holidays  are  those 

Kept  by  ourselves  in  silence  and  apart ; 

The  secret  anniversaries  of  the  heart, 

"When  the  full  river  of  feeling  over- 
flows ; — 

The  happy  days  unclouded  to  their  close ; 

The  sudden  joys  that  out  of  darkness 
start 

As  flames  from  ashes  ; swift  desires 
that  dart 

Like  swallows  singing  down  each  wind 
that  blows- ! 

White  as  the  gleam  of  a receding  sail, 

White  as  a cloud  that  floats  and  fades 
in  air, 

White  as  the  whitest  lily  on  a stream, 

These  tender  memories  are  ; — a Fairy 
Tale 

Of  some  enchanted  land  we  know  not 
where, 

But  lovely  as  a landscape  in  a dream. 


WAPENTAKE. 

TO  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Poet  ! I come  to  touch  thy  lance  with 
mine  ; 

Not  as  a knight,  who  on  the  listed  field 


Of  tourney  touched  his  adversary’s 
shield 

In  token  of  defiance,  but  in  sign 

Of  homage  to  the  mastery,  which  is 
thine, 

In  English  song  ; nor  will  I keep 
concealed, 

And  voiceless  as  a rivulet  frost-con- 
gealed, 

My  admiration  for  thy  verse  divine. 

Not  of  the  howling  dervishes  of  song, 

Who  craze  the  brain  with  their  de- 
lirious dance, 

Art  thou,  0 sweet  historian  of  the 
heart  ! 

Therefore  to  thee  the  laurel-leaves  be- 
long, 

To  thee  our  love  and  our  allegiance, 

For  thy  allegiance  to  the  poet’s  art. 


THE  BROKEN  OAR. 

Once  upon  Iceland’s  solitary  strand 

A poet  wandered  with  his  book  and 
pen, 

Seeking  some  final  word,  some  sweet 
Amen, 

Wherewith  to  close  the  volume  in  his 
hand. 

The  billows  rolled  and  plunged  upon  the 
sand, 

The  circling  sea-gulls  swept  beyond 
his  ken, 

And  from  the  parting  cloud-rack  now 
and  then 

Flashed  the  red  sunset  over  sea  and 
land. 

Then  by  the  billows  at  his  feet  was 
tossed 

A broken  oar  ; and  carved  thereon  he 
read, 

“ Oft  was  I weary,  when  I toiled  at 
thee  ” ; 

And  like  a man,  who  findeth  what  was 
lost, 

He  wrote  the  words,  then  lifted  up  his 
head, 

And  flung  his  useless  pen  into  the 
sea. 


25 


386 


TRANSLATIONS. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


VIRGIL’S  FIRST  ECLOGUE. 

MELIBCEUS. 

Tityrus,  thou  in  the  shade  of  a spread- 
ing beech- tree  reclining, 

Meditatest,  with  slender  pipe,  the  Muse 
of  the  woodlands. 

We  our  country’s  bounds  and  pleasant 
pastures  relinquish, 

We  our  country  fly  ; thou,  Tityrus, 
stretched  in  the  shadow, 

Teachest  the  woods  to  resound  with  the 
name  of  the  fair  Amaryllis. 

TITYRUS. 

0 Melibceus,  a god  for  us  this  leisure 
created, 

For  he  will  be  unto  me  a god  forever  ; 
his  altar 

Oftentimes  shall  imbue  a tender  lamb  from 
our  slieepfolds. 

He,  my  heifers  to  wander  at  large,  and 
myself,  as  thou  seest, 

On  my  rustic  reed  to  play  what  I will, 
hath  permitted. 

MELIBCEUS. 

Truly  I envy  not,  I marvel  rather  ; on 
all  sides 

In  all  the  fields  is  such  trouble.  Behold, 
my  goats  I am  driving, 

Heartsick,  further  away  ; this  one  scarce, 
Tityrus,  lead  I ; 

For  having  here  yeaned  twins  just  now 
among  the  dense  hazels, 

Hope  of  the  flock,  ah  me  ! on  the  naked 
flint  she  hath  left  them. 

Often  this  evil  to  me,  if  my  mind  had 
not  been  insensate, 

Oak-trees  stricken  by  heaven  predicted, 
as  now  I remember  ; 

Often  the  sinister  crow  from  the  hollow 
ilex  predicted. 

Nevertheless,  who  this  god  may  be,  0 
Tityrus,  tell  me. 

TITYRUS. 

0 Meliboeus,  the  city  that  they  call 
Rome,  I imagined, 

Foolish  I ! to  be  like  this  of  ours,  where 
often  we  shepherds 


Wonted  are  to  drive  down  of  our  ewes  the 
delicate  offspring. 

Thus  whelps  like  unto  dogs  had  I known, 
and  kids  to  their  mothers, 

Thus  to  compare  great  things  with  small 
had  I been  accustomed. 

But  this  among  other  cities  its  head  as 
far  hath  exalted 

As  the  cypresses  do  among  the  lissome 
viburnums. 

MELIBCEUS. 

And  what  so  great  occasion  of  seeing 
Rome  hath  possessed  thee  ? 

TITYRUS. 

Liberty,  which,  though  late,  looked  upon 
me  in  my  inertness, 

After  the  time  when  beard  fell  whiter 
from  me  in  shaving,  — 

Yet  she  looked  upon  me,  and  came  to  me 
after  a long  while, 

Since  Amaryllis  possesses  and  Galatea  * 
hath  left  me. 

For  I will  even  confess  that  while  Galatea 
possessed  me 

Neither  care  of  my  flock  nor  hope  of  lib- 
erty was  there. 

Though  from  my  wattled  folds  there 
went  forth  many  a victim, 

And  the  unctuous  cheese  was  pressed  for 
the  city  ungrateful, 

Never  did  my  right  hand  return  home 
heavy  with  money. 

MELIBCEUS. 

I have  wondered  why  sad  thou  invok- 
edst  the  gods,  Amaryllis, 

And  for  whom  thou  didst  suffer  the  apples 
to  hang  on  the  branches  ! 

Tityrus  hence  was  absent  ! Thee,  Tity- 
rus, even  the  pine-trees, 

Thee,  the  very  fountains,  the  very  copses 
were  calling. 

TITYRUS. 

What  could  I do  ? No  power  had  I to 
escape  from  my  bondage, 

Nor  had  I power  elsewhere  to  recognize 
gods  so  propitious. 


OVID  IN  EXILE. 


387 


Here  I beheld  that  youth,  to  whom  each 
year,  Melibceus, 

During  twice  six  days  ascends  the  smoke 
of  our  altars. 

Here  first  gave  he  response  to  me  solicit- 
ing favor  : 

“Feed  as  before  your  heifers,  ye  boys, 
and  yoke  up  your  bullocks.” 

MELIBCEUS. 

Fortunate  old  man  ! So  then  thy  fields 
will  be  left  thee, 

And  large  enough  for  thee,  though  naked 
stone  and  the  marish 

All  thy  pasture-lands  with  the  dreggy 
rush  may  encompass. 

No  unaccustomed  food  thy  gravid  ewes 
shall  endanger, 

Nor  of  the  neighboring  flock  the  dire 
contagion  infect  them. 

Fortunate  old  man ! Here  among  familiar 
rivers. 

And  these  sacred  founts,  shalt  thou  take 
the  shadowy  coolness. 

On  this  side,  a hedge  along  the  neighbor- 
ing cross-road, 

Where  Hyblaean  bees  ever  feed  on  the 
flower  of  the  willow, 

Often  with  gentle  susurrus  to  fall  asleep 
shall  persuade  thee. 

Yonder,  beneath  the  high  rock,  the 
pruner  shall  sing  to  the  breezes, 

Nor  meanwhile  shall  thy  heart’s  delight, 
the  hoarse  wood-pigeons, 

Nor  the  turtle-dove  cease  to  mourn  from 
aerial  elm-trees. 

TITYBUS. 

Therefore  the  agile  stags  shall  sooner  feed 
in  the  ether, 

And  the  billows  leave  the  fishes  bare  on 
the  sea-shore, 

Sooner,  the  border-lands  of  both  over- 
passed, shall  the  exiled 

Parthian  drink  of  the  Soane,  or  the  Ger- 
man drink  of  the  Tigris, 

Than  the  face  cf  him  shall  glide  away 
from  my  bosom  ! 

MELIBCEUS. 

But  we  hence  shall  go,  a part  to  the 
thirsty  A fries, 

Part  to  Scythia  come,  and  the  rapid 
Cretan  Oaxes, 

And  to  the  Britons  from  all  the  universe 
utterly  sundered. 


Ah,  shall  I ever,  a long  time  hence,  the 
bounds  of  my  country 
And  the  roof  of  my  lowly  cottage  cov- 
ered with  greensward 
Seeing,  with  wonder  behold,  — my  king- 
doms, a handful  of  wheat-ears  ! 
Shall  an  impious  soldier  possess  these 
lands  newly  cultured, 

And  these  fields  of  corn  a barbarian  ? 
I.o,  whither  discord 

Us  wretched  people  hath  brought  ! for 
whom  our  fields  we  have  planted  ! 
Graft,  Melibceus,  thy  pear-trees  now,  put 
in  order  thy  vineyards. 

Go,  my  goats,  go  hence,  my  flocks  so 
happy  aforetime. 

Never  again  henceforth  outstretched  in 
my  verdurous  cavern 
Shall  I behold  you  afar  from  the  bushy 
precipice  hanging. 

Songs  no  more  shall  I sing ; not  with  me, 
ye  goats,  as  your  shepherd, 

Shall  ye  browse  on  the  bitter  willow  or 
blooming  laburnum. 

TITYKUS. 

Nevertheless,  this  night  together  with 
me  canst  thou  rest  thee 
Here  on  the  verdant  leaves  ; for  us  there 
are  mellowing  apples, 

Chestnuts  soft  to  the  touch,  and  clouted 
cream  in  abundance  ; 

And  the  high  roofs  now  of  the  villages 
smoke  in  the  distance, 

And  from  the  lofty  mountains  are  falling 
larger  the  shadows. 


OYID  IN  EXILE, 

AT  TOMIS,  IN  BESSARABIA,  NEAR  THE 
MOUTHS  OF  THE  DANUBE. 

Tristia,  Book  III.,  Elegy  X. 

Should  any  one  there  in  Rome  remem- 
ber Ovid  the  exile, 

And,  without  me,  my  name  still  in  the 
city  survive  ; 

Tell  him  that  under  stars  which  never  set 
in  the  ocean 

I am  existing  still,  here  in  a barbarous 
land. 

Fierce  Sarmatians  encompass  me  round, 
and  the  Bessi  and  Gefce  ; 

Names  how  unworthy  to  be  sung  by  a 
genius  like  mine  ! 


388 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Yet  when  the  air  is  warm,  intervening 
Ister  defends  us  : 

He,  as  he  flows,  repels  inroads  of  war 
with  his  waves. 

But  when  the  dismal  winter  reveals  its 
hideous  aspect, 

When  all  the  earth  becomes  white  with 
a marble-like  frost  ; 

And  when  Boreas  is  loosed,  and  the  snow 
hurled  under  Arcturus, 

Then  these  nations,  in  sooth,  shudder 
and  shiver  with  cold. 

Deep  lies  the  snow,  and  neither  the  sun 
nor  the  rain  can  dissolve  it  ; 
Boreas  hardens  it  still,  makes  it  for- 
ever remain. 

Hence,  ere  the  first  has  melted  away, 
another  succeeds  it, 

And  two  years  it  is  wont,  in  many 
places,  to  lie. 

And  so  great  is  the  power  of  the  North- 
wind  awakened,  it  levels 
Lofty  towers  with  the  ground,  roofs 
uplifted  bears  off. 

W rapped  in  skins,  and  with  trousers  sewed, 
they  contend  with  the  weather, 
And  their  faces  alone  of  the  whole 
body  are  seen. 

Often  their  tresses,  when  shaken,  with 
pendent  icicles  tinkle, 

And  their  whitened  beards  shine  with 
the  gathering  frost. 

Wines  consolidate  stand,  preserving  the 
form  of  the  vessels  ; 

No  more  draughts  of  wine, — pieces 
presented  they  drink. 

Why  should  I tell  you  how  all  the  rivers 
are  frozen  and  solid, 

And  from  out  of  the  lake  frangible 
water  is  dug  ? 

Ister,  — ••  no  narrower  stream  than  the 
river  that  bears  the  papyrus,  — 
Which  through  its  many  mouths  min- 
gles its  waves  with  the  deep  ; 

Ister,  with  hardening  winds,  congeals  its 
cerulean  waters, 

Under  a roof  of  ice,  winding  its  way  to 
the  sea. 


There  where  ships  ha  ve  sailed,  men  go  on 
foot  ; and  the  billows, 

Solid  made  by  the  frost,  hoof-beats  of 
horses  indent. 

Over  unwonted  bridges,  with  water  glid- 
ing beneath  them, 

The  Sarmatian  steers  drag  their  bar- 
barian carts. 

Scarcely  shall  I be  believed  ; yet  when 
naught  is  gained  by  a falsehood, 

Absolute  credence  then  should  to  a 
witness  be  given. 

I have  beheld  the  vast  Black  Sea  of  ice 
all  compacted, 

And  a slippery  crust  pressing  its  mo- 
tionless tides. 

’T  is  not  enough  to  have  seen,  I have 
trodden  this  indurate  ocean  ; 

Dry  shod  passed  my  foot  over  its  up- 
permost wave. 

If  thou  hadst  had  of  old  such  a sea  as  this 
is,  Leander  ! 

Then  thy  death  had  not  been  charged 
as  a crime  to  the  Strait. 

Nor  can  the  curved  dolphins  uplift  them- 
selves from  the  water  ; 

All  their  struggles  to  rise  merciless 
winter  prevents  ; 

And  though  Boreas  sound  with  roar  of 
wings  in  commotion, 

In  the  blockaded  gulf  never  a wave 
will  there  be  ; 

And  the  ships  will  stand  hemmed  in  by 
the  frost,  as  in  marble, 

Nor  will  the  oar  have  power  through 
the  stiff  waters  to  cleave. 

Fast-bound  in  the  ice  have  I seen  the 
fishes  adhering, 

Yet  notwithstanding  this  some  of  them 
still  were  alive. 

Hence,  if  the  savage  strength  of  omnipo- 
tent Boreas  freezes 

Whether  the  salt-sea  wave,  whether 
the  refluent  stream,  — 

Straightway, — the  Ister  made  level  by 
arid  blasts  of  the  North-wind,  — 

Comes  the  barbaric  foe  borne  on  his 
swift-footed  steed  ; 


OVID  IN  EXILE. 


389 


Foe,  that  powerful  made  by  his  steed  and 
his  far-flying  arrows, 

All  the  neighboring  land  void  of  in- 
habitants makes. 

Some  take  flight,  and  none  being  left  to 
defend  their  possessions, 
Unprotected,  their  goods  pillage  and 
plunder  become  ; 

Cattle  and  creaking  carts,  the  little  wealth 
of  the  country, 

And  what  riches  beside  indigent  peas- 
ants possess. 

Some  as  captives  are  driven  along,  their 
hands  bound  behind  them, 
Looking  backward  in  vain  toward  their 
Lares  and  lands. 

Others,  transfixed  with  barbed  arrows,  in 
agony  perish, 

For  the  swift  arrow-heads  all  have  in 
poison  been  dipped. 

What  they  cannot  carry  or  lead  away 
they  demolish, 

And  the  hostile  flames  burn  up  the 
innocent  cots. 

Even  when  there  is  peace,  the  fear  of  war 
is  impending  ; 

None,  with  the  ploughshare  pressed, 
furrows  the  soil  any  more. 

Either  this  region  sees,  or  fears  a foe  that 
it  sees  not, 

And  the  sluggish  land  slumbers  in  utter 
neglect. 

No  sweet  grape  lies  hidden  here  in  the 
shade  of  its  vine-leaves, 

No  fermenting  must  fills  and  o’erflows 
the  deep  vats. 

Apples  the  region  denies  ; nor  would 
Aeon tius  have  found  here 
Aught  upon  which  to  write  words  for 
his  mistress  to  read. 

Naked  and  barren  plains  without  leaves 
or  trees  we  behold  here,  — 

Places,  alas  ! unto  which  no  happy 
man  would  repair. 

Since  then  this  mighty  orb  lies  open  so 
wide  upon  all  sides, 

Has  this  region  been  found  only  my 
prison  to  be  ? 


Tristia,  Book  III.,  Elegy  XII. 

Now  the  zephyrs  diminish  the  cold,  and 
the  year  being  ended, 

Winter  Mreotian  seems  longer  than  ever 
before  ; 

And  the  Ram  that  bore  unsafely  the 
burden  of  Helle, 

Now  makes  the  hours  of  the  day  ecpial 
with  those  of  the  night. 

Now  the  boys  and  the  laughing  girls  the 
violet  gather, 

Which  the  fields  bring  forth,  nobody 
sowing  the  seed. 

Now  the  meadows  are  blooming  with 
flowers  of  various  colors, 

And  with  untaught  throats  carol  the 
garrulous  birds. 

Now  the  swallow,  to  shun  the  crime  of 
her  merciless  mother, 

Under  the  rafters  builds  cradles  and 
dear  little  homes  ; 

And  the  blade  that  lay  hid,  covered  up  in 
the  furrows  of  Ceres, 

Now  from  the  tepid  ground  raises  its 
delicate  head. 

Where  there  is  ever  a vine,  the  bud 
shoots  forth  from  the  tendrils, 
But  from  the  Getie  shore  distant  afar 
is  the  vine  ! 

Where  there  is  ever  a tree,  on  the  tree 
the  branches  are  swelling, 

But  from  the  Getic  land  distant  afar 
is  the  tree  ! 

Now  it  is  holiday  there  in  Rome,  and  to 
games  in  due  order 
Give  place  the  windy  wars  of  the  vocif- 
erous bar. 

Now  they  are  riding  the  horses  ; with 
light  arms  now  they  are  playing, 
Now  with  the  ball,  and  now  round 
rolls  the  swift-flying  hoop  : 

Now,  when  the  young  athlete  with  flow- 
ing oil  is  anointed, 

He  in  the  Virgin’s  Fount  bathes,  over- 
wearied, his  limbs. 


390 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Thrives  the  stage  ; and  applause,  with 
voices  at  variance,  thunders, 

And  the  Theatres  three  for  the  three 
Forums  resound. 


And  that  thy  sorrowful  head,  Germania, 
thou,  the  rebellious, 

Under  the  feet,  at  last,  of  the  Great 
Captain  hast  laid. 


Four  times  happy  is  he,  and  times  with- 
out number  is  happy, 

Who  the  city  of  Rome,  uninterdicted, 
enjoys. 

But  all  I see  is  the  snow  in  the  vernal 
sunshine  dissolving, 

And  the  waters  no  more  delved  from 
the  indurate  lake. 


Whoso  shall  tell  me  these  things,  that 
not  to  have  seen  will  afflict  me, 
Forthwith  unto  my  house  welcomed  as 
guest  shall  he  be. 

Woe  is  me  ! Is  the  house  of  Ovid  in 
Scythian  lands  now  ? 

And  doth  punishment  now  give  me  its 
place  for  a home  ? 


Nor  is  the  sea  now  frozen,  nor  as  before 
o’er  the  Ister 

Conies  the  Sarmatian  boor  driving  his 
stridulous  cart. 

Hitherward,  nevertheless,  some  keels 
already  are  steering, 

And  on  this  Pontic  shore  alien  vessels 
will  be. 


Grant,  ye  gods,  that  Caesar  make  this  not 
my  house  and  my  homestead, 

But  decree  it  to  be  only  the  inn  of  my 
pain. 


ON  THE  TERRACE  OF  THE  AIGA- 
LADES. 


Eagerly  shall  I run  to  the  sailor,  and, 
having  saluted, 

Who  he  may  be,  I shall  ask  ; where- 
fore and  whence  he  hath  come. 

Strange  indeed  will  it  be,  if  he  come  not 
from  regions  adjacent, 

And  incautious  unless  ploughing  the 
neighboring  sea. 

Rarely  a mariner  over  the  deep  from  Italy 
passes, 

Rarely  he  comes  to  these  shores,  wholly 
of  harbors  devoid. 

Whether  he  knoweth  Greek,  or  whether 
in  Latin  he  speak  eth, 

Surely  on  this  account  he  the  more 
welcome  will  be. 

Also  perchance  from  the  mouth  of  the 
Strait  and  the  waters  Propontic, 
Unto  the  steady  South- wind,  some  one 
is  spreading  his  sails. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  M^RY. 

From  this  high  portal,  where  upsprings 
The  rose  to  touch  our  hands  in  play, 

We  at  a glance  behold  three  things,  — 
The  Sea,  the  Town,  and  the  Highway. 

And  the  Sea  says  : My  shipwrecks  fear ; 
I drown  my  best  friends  in  the  deep  ; 
And  those  who  braved  my  tempests,  here 
Among  my  sea-weeds  lie  asleep  ! 

The  Town  says  : I am  filled  and  fraught 
With  tumult  and  with  smoke  and  care  ; 
My  days  with  toil  are  overwrought, 

And  in  my  nights  I gasp  for  air. 

The  Highway  says  : My  wheel-tracks 
guide 

To  the  pale  climates  of  the  North  ; 
Where  my  last  milestone  stands  abide 
The  people  to  their  death  gone  forth. 


Whosoever  he  is,  the  news  he  can  faith- 
fully tell  me, 

Which  may  become  a part  and  an  ap- 
proach to  the  truth. 


Here,  in  the  shade,  this  life  of  ours, 
Full  of  delicious  air,  glides  by 
Amid  a multitude  of  flowers 
As  countless  as  the  stars  on  high  ; 


He,  I pray,  may  be  able  to  tell  me  the 
triumphs  of  Caesar, 

Which  he  has  heard  of,  and  vows  paid 
to  the  Latian  Jove  ; 


These  red-tiled  roofs,  this  fruitful  soil, 
Bathed  with  an  azure  all  divine, 

Where  springs  the  tree  that  gives  us  oil, 
The  grape  that  giveth  us  the  wine ; 


FORSAKEN. 


391 


Beneath  these  mountains  stripped  of  trees, 
Whose  tops  with  flowers  are  covered  o’er, 
Where  springtime  of  the  Hesperides 
Begins,  but  endeth  nevermore  ; 

Under  these  leafy  vaults  and  walls, 

That  unto  gentle  sleep  persuade  ; 

This  rainbow  of  the  waterfalls, 

Of  mingled  inist  and  sunshine  made  ; 

Upon  these  shores,  where  all  invites, 
We  live  our  languid  life  apart ; 

This  air  is  that  of  life’s  delights, 

The  festival  of  sense  and  heart ; 

This  limpid  space  of  time  prolong, 
Forget  to-morrow  in  to-day, 

And  leave  unto  the  passing  throng 
The  Sea,  the  Town,  and  the  Highway. 


TO  MY  BROOKLET. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  DUCIS. 

Thou  brooklet,  all  unknown  to  song, 
Hid  in  the  covert  of  the  wood  ! 

Ah,  yes,  like  thee  I fear  the  throng, 
Like  thee  I love  the  solitude. 

0 brooklet,  let  my  sorrows  past 
Lie  all  forgotten  in  their  graves, 

Till  in  my  thoughts  remain  at  last 
Only  thy  peace,  thy  flowers,  thy  waves. 

The  lily  by  thy  margin  waits  ; — 

The  nightingale,  the  marguerite  ; 

In  shadow  here  he  meditates 
His  nest,  his  love,  his  music  sweet. 

Near  thee  the  self-collected  soul 
Knows  naught  of  error  or  of  crime  ; 

Thy  waters,  murmuring  as  they  roll, 
Transform  his  musings  into  rhyme. 

Ah,  when,  on  bright  autumnal  eves, 
Pursuing  still  thy  course,  shall  I 
Lisp  the  soft  shudder  of  the  leaves, 

And  hear  the  lapwing’s  plaintive  cry  ? 

BARREGES. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  LEFRANC  DE 
POMPIGNAN. 

1 leave  you,  ye  cold  mountain  chains, 
Dwelling  of  warriors  stark  and  frore  ! 
You,  may  these  eyes  behold  no  more, 
Save  on  the  horizon  of  our  plains. 


Vanish,  ye  frightful,  gloomy  views  ! 

Ye  rocks  that  mount  up  to  the  clouds  ! 
Of  skies,  enwrapped  in  misty  shrouds, 
Impracticable  avenues  ! 

Ye  torrents,  that  with  might  and  main 
Break  pathways  through  the  rocky  walls, 
With  your  terrific  waterfalls 
Fatigue  no  more  my  weary  brain  ! 

Arise,  ye  landscapes  full  of  charms, 
Arise,  ye  pictures  of  delight ! 

Ye  brooks,  that  water  in  your  flight 
The  flowers  and  harvests  of  our  farms  ! 

You  I perceive,  ye  meadows  green, 
Where  the  Garonne  the  lowland  fills, 
Not  far  from  that  long  chain  of  hills, 
With  intermingled  vales  between. 

Yon  wreath  of  smoke,  that  mounts  so 

high. 

Methinks  from  my  own  hearth  must  come ; 
With  speed,  to  that  beloved  home, 

Fly,  ye  too  lazy  coursers,  fly  ! 

And  bear  me  thither,  where  the  soul 
In  quiet  may  itself  possess, 

Where  all  things  soothe  the  mind’s  dis- 
tress, 

Where  all  things  teach  me  and  console. 


FORSAKEN. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

Something  the  heart  must  have  to 
cherish, 

Must  love  and  joy  and  sorrow  learn, 
Something  with  passion  clasp,  or  perish, 
And  in  itself  to  ashes  burn. 

So  to  this  child  my  heart  is  clinging, 
And  its  frank  eyes,  with  look  intense, 
Me  from  a world  of  sin  are  bringing 
Back  to  a world  of  innocence. 

Disdain  must  thou  endure  forever  ; 

Strong  may  thy  heart  in  danger  be  ! 
Thou  shalt  not  fail ! but  ah,  be  never 
False  as  thy  father  was  to  me. 

Never  will  I forsake  thee,  faithless, 

And  thou  thy  mother  ne’er  forsake, 
Until  her  lips  are  white  and  breathless, 
Until  in  death  her  eyes  shall  break. 


392 


TRANSLATIONS. 


ALLAH. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MAHLMANN. 

Allah  gives  light  in  darkness, 
Allah  gives  rest  in  pain, 

Cheeks  that  are  white  with  weeping 
Allah  paints  red  again. 


The  flowers  and  the  blossoms  wither, 
Years  vanish  with  flying  fleet  ; 

But  my  heart  will-live  on  forever, 
That  here  in  sadness  beat. 

Gladly  to  Allah’s  dwelling 
Yonder  would  I take  flight ; 

There  will  the  darkness  vanish, 

There  will  my  eyes  have  sight. 


SEVEN  SONNETS 


AND  A CANZONE,  FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

[The  following  translations  are  from  the  poems  of  Michael  Angelo  as  revised  by  his  nephew 
Michael  Angelo  the  Younger,  and  were  made  before  the  publication  of  the  original  text  by 
Guasti.] 


I. 

THE  ARTIST. 

Nothing  the  greatest  artist  can  conceive 
That  every  marble  block  doth  not 
confine 

Within  itself ; and  only  its  design 
The  hand  that  follows  intellect  can 
achieve. 

The  ill  I flee,  the  good  that  I believe, 

In  thee,  fair  lady,  lofty  and  divine, 
Thus  hidden  lie  ; and  so  that  death  be 
mine 

Art,  of  desired  success,  doth  me  be- 
reave. 

Love  is  not  guilty,  then,  nor  thy  fair  face, 
Nor  fortune,  cruelty,  nor  great  disdain, 
Of  my  disgrace,  nor  chance,  nordestiny, 

If  in  thy  heart  both  death  and  love  find 
place 

At  the  same  time,  and  if  my  humble 
brain, 

Burning,  can  nothing  draw  but  death 
from  thee. 


IT. 

EIRE. 

Not  without  fire  can  any  workman  mould 
The  iron  to  his  preconceived  design, 
Nor  can  the  artist  without  fire  refine 
And  purify  from  all  its  dross  the  gold  ; 
Nor  can  revive  the  phoenix,  we  are  told, 


Except  by  fire.  Hence  if  such  death 
be  mine 

I hope  to  rise  again  with  the  divine, 
Whom  death  augments,  and  time  can- 
not make  old. 

0 sweet,  sweet  death  ! 0 fortunate  fire 

that  burns 

Within  me  still  to  renovate  my  days, 
Though  I am  almost  numbered  with 
the  dead  ! 

If  by  its  nature  unto  heaven  returns 
This  element,  me,  kindled  in  its  blaze. 
Will  it  bear  upward  when  my  life  is  fled. 

III. 

YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

0 give  me  back  the  days  when  loose  and 
free 

To  my  blind  passion  were  the  curb  and 
rein, 

O give  me  back  the  angelic  face  again, 
With  which  all  virtue  buried  seems 
to  be  ! 

0 give  my  panting  footsteps  back  to  me, 
That  are  in  age  so  slow  and  fraught 
with  pain, 

And  fire  and  moisture  in  the  heart  and 
brain, 

If  thou  wouldst  have  me  burn  and 
weep  for  thee  ! 

If  it  be  true  thou  livest  alone,  Amor, 

On  the  sweet-bitter  tears  of  human 
hearts, 


SEVEN  SONNETS. 


393 


In  an  old  man  thou  canst  not  wake 
desire  ; 

Souls  that  have  almost  reached  the  other 
shore 

Of  a diviner  love  should  feel  the  darts, 
And  be  as  tinder  to  a holier  fire. 


IV. 

OLD  AGE. 

The  course  of  my  long  life  hath  reached 
at  last, 

In  fragile  bark  o’er  a tempestuous  sea, 

The  common  harbor,  where  must  ren- 
dered be 

Account  of  all  the  actions  of  the  past. 

The  impassioned  phantasy,  that,  vague 
and  vast, 

Made  art  an  idol  and  a king  to  me, 

Was  an  illusion,  and  but  vanity 

Were  the  desires  that  lured  ine  and 
harassed. 

The  dreams  of  love,  that  were  so  sweet 
of  yore, 

What  are  they  now,  when  two  deaths 
may  be  mine,  — 

One  sure,  and  one  forecasting  its 
alarms  ? 

Painting  and  sculpture  satisfy  no  more 

The  soul  now  turning  to  the  Love 
Divine, 

That  oped,  to  embrace  us,  on  the  cross 
its  arms. 


V. 

TO  VITTORIA  COLONNA. 

Lady,  how  can  it  chance — yet  this  we 
see 

In  long  experience  — that  will  longer 
last 

A living  image  carved  from  quarries 
vast 

Than  its  own  maker,  who  dies  presently  ? 

Cause  yield eth  to  effect  if  this  so  be, 

And  even  Nature  is  by  Art  surpassed  ; 

This  know  I,  who  to  Art  have  given 
the  past, 

But  see  that  Time  is  breaking  faith 
with  me. 

Perhaps  on  both  of  us  long  life  can  I 

Either  in  color  or  in  stone  bestow, 

By  now  portraying  each  in  look  and 
mien  ; 


So  that  a thousand  years  after  we  die, 
How  fair  thou  wast,  and  I how  full  of 
woe, 

And  wherefore  I so  loved  thee,  may  be 
seen. 


VI. 

TO  VITTORIA  COLONNA. 

When  the  prime  mover  of  my  many  sighs 

Heaven  took  through  death  from  out 
her  earthly  place, 

Nature,  that  never  made  so  fair  a face. 

Remained  ashamed,  and  tears  were  in 
all  eyes. 

0 fate,  unheeding  my  impassioned  cries  ! 

O hopes  fallacious  ! O thou  spirit  of 
grace, 

Where  art  thou  now7  ? Earth  holds 
in  its  embrace 

Thy  lovely  limbs,  thy  holy  thoughts 
the  skies. 

Vainly  did  cruel  death  attempt  to  stay 

The  rumor  of  thy  virtuous  renown, 

That  Lethe’s  waters  could  not  wash 
away  ! 

A thousand  leaves,  since  he  hath  stricken 
thee  down, 

Speak  of  thee,  nor  to  thee  could 
Heaven  convey, 

Except  through  death,  a refuge  and  a 
crown. 


VII. 

DANTE. 

What  should  be  said  of  him  cannot  be 
said  ; 

By  too  great  splendor  is  his  name  at- 
tended ; 

To  blame  is*  easier  those  who  him  of- 
fended, 

Than  reach  the  faintest  glory  round 
him  shed. 

This  man  descended  to  the  doomed  and 
dead 

For  our  instruction  ; then  to  God  as- 
cended ; 

Heaven  opened  wide  to  him  its  portals 
splendid, 

Who  from  his  country’s,  closed  against 
him,  fled. 

Ungrateful  land  ! To  its  own  prejudice 


394 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Nurse  of  his  fortunes  ; and  this  show- 
I eth  well, 

That  the  most  perfect  most  of  grief 
shall  see. 

Among  a thousand  proofs  let  one  suffice, 
That  as  his  exile  hath  no  parallel, 
Ne’er  walked  the  earth  a greater  man 
than  he. 


VIII. 

CANZONE. 

Ah  me  ! ah  me  ! when  thinking  of  the 
years. 

The  vanished  years,  alas,  I do  not  find 


Among  them  all  one  day  that  was  my 
own  ! 

Fallacious  hopes,  desires  of  the  un- 
known, 

Lamenting,  loving,  burning,  and  in 
tears 

(For  human  passions  all  have  stirred 
my  mind), 

Have  held  me,  now  I feel  and  know, 
confined 

Both  from  the  true  and  good  still  far 
away. 

I perish  day  by  day  ; 

The  sunshine  fails,  the  shadows  grow 
more  dreary, 

And  I am  near  to  fall,  infirm  and 
weary. 


NOTES, 


NOTES 


Page  11.  Coplas  de  Manrique. 

This  poem  of  Manrique  is  a great  favor- 
ite in  Spain.  No  less  than  four  poetic 
Glosses,  or  running  commentaries,  upon  it 
have  been  published,  no  one  of  which, 
however,  possesses  great  poetic  merit. 
That  of  the  Carthusian  monk,  Rodrigo  de 
Valdepenas,  is  the  best.  It  is  known  as 
the  Glosa  del  Gartujo.  There  is  also  a 
prose  Commentary  by  Luis  de  Aranda. 

The  following  stanzas  of  the  poem  were 
found  in  the  author’s  pocket,  after  his 
death  on  the  field  of  battle. 

“ 0 "World  ! so  few  the  years  we  live, 

Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 
Were  life  indeed ! 

Alas  ! thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast, 

Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 
The  soul  is  freed. 

“ Our  days  are  covered  o’er  with  grief, 

And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 
Veil  all  in  gloom  ; 

Left  desolate  of  real  good, 

Within  this  cheerless  solitude 
No  pleasures  bloom. 

**  Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 

And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 

Or  dark  despair ; 

Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 

That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 

“ Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a groan, 

By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 

And  weary  hearts  ; 

Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 

But  with  a lingering  step  and  slow 
Its  form  departs.” 

Page  21.  King  Christian. 

Nils  Juel  was  a celebrated  Danish  Ad- 
miral, and  Peder  Wessel,  a Vice-Admiral, 
who  for  his  great  prowess  received  the 
popular  title  of  Tordenskiold,  or  Thunder- 
shield.  In  childhood  he  was  a tailor’s  ap- 
prentice, and  rose  to  his  high  rank  before 
the  age  of  twenty-eight,  when  he  was 
killed  in  a duel. 


Page  25.  The  Skeleton  in  Armor. 

This  Ballad  was  suggested  to  me  while 
riding  on  the  sea-shore  at  Newport.  A 
year  or  two  previous  a skeleton  had  been 
dug  up  at  Fall  River,  clad  in  broken  and 
corroded  armor  ; and  the  idea  occurred  to 
me  of  connecting  it  with  the  Round  Tower 
at  Newport,  generally  known  hitherto  as 
the  Old  Windmill,  though  now  claimed  by 
the  Danes  as  a work  of  their  early  ances- 
tors. Professor  Rafn,  in  the  M&moires  de 
la  Societe  Roy  ale  des  Antiquaires  du  Nord, 
for  1838-1839,  says  : — 

“ There  is  no  mistaking  in  this  instance 
the  style  in  which  the  more  ancient  stone 
edifices  of  the  North  were  constructed,  — 
the  style  which  belongs  to  the  Roman  or 
Ante-Gothic  architecture,  and  which,  es- 
pecially after  the  time  of  Charlemagne, 
diffused  itself  from  Italy  over  the  whole  of 
the  West  and  North  of  Europe,  where  it 
continued  to  predominate  until  the  close 
of  the  twelfth  century,  — that  style  which 
some  authors  have,  from  one  of  its  most 
striking  characteristics,  called  the  round 
arch  style,  the  same  which  in  England  is 
denominated  Saxon  and  sometimes  Nor- 
man architecture. 

“ On  the  ancient  structure  in  Newport 
there  are  no  ornaments  remaining,  which 
might  possibly  have  served  to  guide  us  in 
assigning  the  probable  date  of  its  erection. 
That  no  vestige  whatever  is  found  of  the 
pointed  arch,  nor  any  approximation  to  it, 
is  indicative  of  an  earlier  rather  than  of  a 
later  period.  From  such  characteristics  as 
remain,  however,  we  can  scarcely  form  any 
other  inference  than  one,  in  which  I am 
persuaded  that  all  who  are  familiar  with 
Old-Northern  architecture  will  concur, 
THAT  THIS  BUILDING  WAS  ERECTED  AT  A 
PERIOD  DECIDEDLY  NOT  LATER  THAN  THE 
TWELFTH  CENTURY.  This  remark  applies, 
of  course,  to  the  original  building  only, 
and  not  to  the  alterations  that  it  subse- 
I quently  received  ; for  there  are  several 
I such  alterations  in  the  upper  part  of  the 


398 


NOTES. 


building  which  cannot  be  mistaken,  and 
which  were  most  likely  occasioned  by  its 
being  adapted  in  modern  times  to  various 
uses  ; for  example,  as  the  substructure  of 
a windmill,  and  latterly  as  a hay  magazine. 
To  the  same  times  may  be  referred  the 
windows,  the  fireplace,  and  the  apertures 
made  above  the  columns.  That  this 
building  could  not  have  been  erected  for  a 
windmill,  is  what  an  architect  will  easily 
discern.” 

I will  not  enter  into  ^discussion  of  the 
point.  It  is  sufficiently  well  established 
for  the  purpose  of  a ballad  ; though  doubt- 
less many  a citizen  of  Newport,  who  has 
passed  his  days  within  sight  of  the  Round 
Tower,  will  be  ready  to  exclaim,  with 
Sancho  : “ God  bless  me  ! did  I not  warn 
you  to  have  a care  of  what  you  were  doing, 
for  that  it  was  nothing  but  a windmill  ; 
and  nobody  could  mistake  it,  but  one  who 
had  the  like  in  his  head.” 

Page  27.  Skoal ! 

In  Scandinavia,  this  is  the  customary 
salutation  when  drinking  a health.  I have 
slightly  changed  the  orthography  of  the 
word,  in  order  to  preserve  the  correct  pro- 
nunciation. 

Page  28.  The  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

The  tradition  upon  which  this  ballad  is 
founded,  and  the  “ shards  of  the  Luck  of 
Edenhall,”  still  exist  in  England.  The 
goblet  is  in  the  possession  of  Sir  Christo- 
her  Musgrave,  Bart.,  of  Eden  Hall,  Cum- 
erland  ; and  is  not  so  entirely  shattered 
as  the  ballad  leaves  it. 

Page  29.  The  Elected  Knight. 

This  strange  and  somewhat  mystical 
ballad  is  from  Nyerup  and  Rahbek’s 
Danske  Viser  of  the  Middle  Ages.  It 
seems  to  refer  to  the  first  preaching  of 
Christianity  in  the  North,  and  to  the  in- 
stitution of  Knight-Errantry.  The  three 
maidens  I suppose  to  be  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity.  The  irregularities  of  the  original 
have  been  carefully  preserved  in  the  trans- 
lation. 

Page  29.  The  Children  of  the  Lord's 
Supper. 

There  is  something  patriarchal  still  lin- 
gering about  rural  life  in  Sweden,  which 
renders  it  a fit  theme  for  song.  Almost 
primeval  simplicity  reigns  over  that  North- 
ern land,  — almost  primeval  solitude  and 
stillness.  You  pass  out  from  the  gate  of 
the  city,  and,  as  if  by  magic,  the  scene 
changes  to  a wild,  woodland  landscape. 
Around  you  are  forests  of  fir.  Overhead 
hang  the  long,  fan-like  branches,  trailing 
with  moss,  and  heavy  with  red  and  blue 


cones.  Under  foot  is  a carpet  of  yellow 
leaves  ; and  the  air  is  warm  and  balmy. 
On  a wooden  bridge  you  cross  a little  sil- 
ver stream  ; and  anon  come  forth  into  a 
pleasant  and  sunny  land  of  farms.  Wood- 
en fences  divide  the  adjoining  fields. 
Across  the  road  are  gates,  which  are 
opened  by  troops  of  children.  The  peas- 
ants take  off  their  hats  as  you  pass  ; you 
sneeze,  and  they  cry,  “ God  bless  you  ! ” 
The  houses  in  the  villages  and  smaller 
towns  are  all  built  of  hewn  timber,  and  for 
the  most  part  painted  red.  The  floors  of 
the  taverns  are  strewn  with  the  fragrant 
tips  of  fir  boughs.  In  many  villages  there 
are  no  taverns,  and  the  peasants  take  turns 
in  receiving  travellers.  The  thrifty  house- 
wife shows  you  into  the  best  chamber,  the 
walls  of  which  are  hung  round  with  rude 
pictures  from  the  Bible  ; and  brings  you 
her  heavy  silver  spoons,  — an  heirloom,  — 
to  dip  the  curdled  milk  from  the  pan. 
You  have  oaten  cakes  baked  some  months 
before,  or  bread  with  anise-seed  and  cori- 
ander in  it,  or  perhaps  a little  pine  bark. 

Meanwhile  the  sturdy  husband  has 
brought  his  horses  from  the  plough,  and 
harnessed  them  to  your  carriage.  Solitary 
travellers  come  and  go  in  uncouth  one- 
horse  chaises.  Most  of  them  have  pipes  in 
their  mouths,  and,  hanging  around  their 
necks  in  front,  a leather  wallet,  in  which 
they  carry  tobacco,  and  the  great  bank- 
notes of  the  country,  as  large  as  your  two 
hands.  You  meet,  also,  groups  of  Dale- 
karlian  peasant-women,  travelling  home- 
ward or  townward  in  pursuit  of  work. 
They  walk  barefoot,  carrying  in  their 
hands  their  shoes,  which  have  high  heels 
under  the  hollow  of  the  foot,  and  soles  of 
birch  bark. 

Frequent,  too,  are  the  village  churches, 
standing  by  the  roadside,  each  in  its  own 
little  Garden  of  Gethsemane.  In  the  par- 
ish register  great  events  are  doubtless  re- 
corded. Some  old  king  was  christened  or 
buried  in  that  church  ; and  a little  sexton, 
with  a rusty  key,  shows  you  the  baptismal 
font,  or  the  coffin.  In  the  churchyard  are 
a few  flowers,  and  much  green  grass ; and 
daily  the  shadow  of  the  church  spire,  with 
its  long,  tapering  finger,  counts  the  tombs, 
representing  a dial-plate  of  human  life,  on 
which  the  hours  and  minutes  are  the 
graves  of  men.  The  stones  are  flat,  and 
large,  and  low,  and  perhaps  sunken,  like 
the  roofs  of  old  houses.  On  some  are  ar- 
morial bearings  ; on  others  only  the  initials 
of  the  poor  tenants,  with  a date,  as  on  the 
roofs  of  Dutch  cottages.  They  all  sleep 
with  their  heads  to  the  westward.  Each 
held  a lighted  taper  in  his  hand  when  he 
died ; and  in  his  coffin  were  placed  his  lit- 


NOTES. 


399 


tie  heart-treasures,  and  a piece  of  money 
for  his  last  journey.  Babes  that  came  life- 
less into  the  world  were  carried  in  the 
arms  of  gray-haired  old  men  to  the  only 
cradle  they  ever  slept  in ; and  in  the 
shroud  of  the  dead  mother  were  laid  the 
little  garments  of  the  child  that  lived 
and  died  in  her  bosom.  And  over  this 
scene  the  village  pastor  looks  from  his 
window  in  the  stillness  of  midnight,  and 
says  in  his  heart,  “ How  quietly  they  rest, 
all  the  departed  ! ” 

Near  the  churchyard  gate  stands  a poor- 
box,  fastened  to  a post  by  iron  bands, 
and  secured  by  a padlock,  with  a sloping 
wooden  roof  to  keep  off  the  rain.  If  it  be 
Sunday,  the  peasants  sit  on  the  church 
steps  and  con  their  psalm-books.  Others 
are  coming  down  the  road  with  their 
beloved  pastor,  who  talks  to  them  of 
holy  things  from  beneath  his  broad- 
brimmed  hat.  He  speaks  of  fields  and 
harvests,  and  of  the  parable  of  the 
sower,  that  went  forth  to  sow.  He  leads 
them  to  the  Good  Shepherd,  and  to  the 
pleasant  pastures  of  the  spirit-land.  He 
is  their  patriarch,  and,  like  Melchizedek, 
both  priest  and  king,  though  he  has  no 
other  throne  than  the  church  pulpit.  The 
women  carry  psalm-books  in  their  hands, 
wrapped  in  silk  handkerchiefs,  and  listen 
devoutly  to  the  good  man’s  words.  But 
the  young  men,  like  Gallio,  care  for  none 
of  these  things.  They  are  busy  counting 
the  plaits  in  the  kirtles  of  the  peasant- 
girls,  their  number  being  an  indication  of 
the  wearer’s  wealth.  It  may  end  in  a 
wedding. 

I will  endeavor  to  describe  a village  wed- 
ding in  Sweden.  It  shall  be  in  summer- 
time, that  there  may  be  flowers,  and  in  a 
southern  province,  that  the  bride  may  be 
fair.  The  early  song  of  the  lark  and  of 
chanticleer  are  mingling  in  the  clear  morn- 
ing air,  and  the  sun,  the  heavenly  bride- 
groom with  golden  locks,  arises  in  the  east, 
just  as  our  earthly  bridegroom  with  yel- 
low hair  arises  in  the  south.  In  the  yard 
there  is  a sound  of  voices  and  trampling 
of  hoofs,  and  horses  are  led  forth  and 
saddled.  The  steed  that  is  to  bear  the 
bridegroom  has  a bunch  of  flowers  upon 
his  forehead,  and  a garland  of  corn-flowers 
around  his  neck.  Friends  from  the  neigh- 
boring farms  come  riding  in,  their  blue 
cloaks  streaming  to  the  wind  ; and  finally 
the  happy  bridegroom,  with  a whip  in  his 
hand,  and  a monstrous  nosegay  in  the 
breast  of  his  black  jacket,  comes  forth 
from  his  chamber  ; and  then  to  horse  and 
away,  towards  the  village  where  the  bride 
already  sits  and  waits. 

Foremost  rides  the  spokesman,  followed 


by  some  half-dozen  village  musicians. 
Next  comes  the  bridegroom  between  his 
two  groomsmen,  and  then  forty  or  fifty 
friends  and  wedding  guests,  half  of  them 
perhaps  with  pistols  and  guns  in  their 
hands.  A kind  of  baggage-wagon  brings 
up  the  rear,  laden  with  food  and  drink  for 
these  merry  pilgrims.  At  the  entrance  of 
every  village  stands  a triumphal  arch, 
adorned  with  flowers  and  ribbons  and 
evergreens  ; and  as  they  pass  beneath  it 
the  wedding  guests  fire  a salute,  and  the 
whole  procession  stops . And  straight  from 
every  pocket  flies  a black-jack,  filled  with 
punch  or  brandy.  It  is  passed  from  hand 
to  hand  among  the  crowd  ; provisions  are 
brought  from  the  wagon,  and  after  eating 
and  drinking  and  hurrahing  the  procession 
moves  forward  again,  and  at  length  draws 
near  the  house  of  the  bride.  Four  heralds 
ride  forward  to  announce  that  a knight  and 
his  attendants  are  in  the  neighboring  forest, 
and  pray  for  hospitality.  “How  many 
are  you  ? ” asks  the  bride’s  father.  “ At 
least  three  hundred,”  is  the  answer ; and 
to  this  the  host  replies,  “ Yes  ; were  you 
seven  times  as  many,  you  should  all  be 
welcome  : and  in  token  thereof  receive  this 
cup.”  Whereupon  each  herald  receives  a 
can  of  ale  ; and  soon  after  the  whole  jovial 
company  conies  storming  into  the  farmer’s 
yard,  and,  riding  round  the  May-pole, 
which  stands  in  the  centre,  alights  amid  a 
grand  salute  and  flourish  of  music. 

In  the  hall  sits  the  bride,  with  a crown 
upon  her  head  and  a tear  in  her  eye,  like 
the  Virgin  Mary  in  old  church  paintings. 
She  is  dressed  in  a red  bodice  and  kirtle 
with  loose  linen  sleeves.  There  is  a gilded 
belt  around  her  waist  ; and  around  her 
neck  strings  of  golden  beads,  and  a golden 
chain.  On  the  crown  rests  a wreath  of 
wild  roses,  and  below  it  another  of  cy- 
press. Loose  over  her  shoulders  falls  her 
flaxen  hair  ; and  her  blue  innocent  eyes  are 
fixed  upon  the  ground.  0 thou  good  soul ! 
thou  hast  hard  hands,  but  a soft  heart  ! 
Thou  art  poor.  The  very  ornaments  thou 
wearest  are  not  thine.  They  have  been 
hired  for  this  great  day.  Yet  art  thou 
rich  ; rich  in  health,  rich  in  hope,  rich  in 
thy  first,  young,  fervent  love.  The  bless- 
ing of  Heaven  be  upon  thee  ! So  thinks 
the  parish  priest,  as  he  joins  together  the 
hands  of  bride  and  bridegroom,  saying  in 
deep,  solemn  tones,  — “I  give  thee  in 
marriage  this  damsel,  to  be  thy  wedded 
wife  in  all  honor,  and  to  share  the  half  of 
thy  bed,  thy  lock  and  key,  and  every  third 
penny  which  you  two  may  possess,  or  may 
inherit,  and  all  the  rights  which  Upland’s 
laws  provide,  and  the  holy  King  Erik 
gave.” 


400 


NOTES. 


The  dinner  is  now  served,  and  the  bride 
sits  between  the  bridegroom  and  the  priest. 
The  spokesman  delivers  an  oration  after 
the  ancient  custom  of  his  fathers.  He  in- 
terlards it  well  with  quotations  from  the 
Bible  ; and  invites  the  Saviour  to  be  pres- 
ent at  this  marriage  feast,  as  he  was  at  the 
marriage  feast  in  Cana  of  Galilee.  The  ta- 
ble is  not  sparingly  set  forth.  Each  makes 
a long  arm  and  the  feast  goes  cheerly  on. 
Punch  and  brandy  pass  round  between  the 
courses,  and  here  and  there  a pipe  is  smoked 
while  waiting  for  the  next  dish . They  sit 
long  at  table  ; but,  as  all  things  must  have 
an  end,  so  must  a Swedish  dinner.  Then 
the  dance  begins.  It  is  led  olf  by  the 
bride  and  the  priest,  who  perform  a sol- 
emn minuet  together.  Not  till  after  mid- 
night comes  the  last  dance.  The  girls 
form  a ring  around  the  bride,  to  keep  her 
from  the  hands  of  the  married  women, 
who  endeavor  to  break  through  the  magic 
circle,  and  seize  their  new  sister.  After 
long  struggling  they  succeed ; and  the 
crown  is  taken  from  her  head  and  the  jew- 
els from  her  neck,  and  her  bodice  is  un- 
laced and  her  kirtle  taken  olf  ; and  like  a 
vestal  virgin  clad  all  in  white  she  goes,  but 
it  is  to  her  marriage  chamber,  not  to  her 
grave  ; and  the  wedding  guests  follow  her 
with  lighted  candles  in  their  hands.  And 
this  is  a village  bridal. 

Nor  must  I forget  the  suddenly  chan- 
ging seasons  of  the  Northern  clime.  There 
is  no  long  and  lingering  spring,  unfolding 
leaf  and  blossom  one  by  one  ; no  long 
and  lingering  autumn,  pompous  with 
many-colored  leaves  and  the  glow  of  In- 
dian summers.  But  winter  and  summer 
are  wonderful,  and  pass  into  each  other. 
The  quail  has  hardly  ceased  piping  in  the 
corn,  when  winter  from  the  folds  of  trail- 
ing clouds  sows  broadcast  over  the  land 
snow,  icicles,  and  rattling  hail.  The  days 
wane  apace.  Erelong  the  sun  hardly  rises 
above  the  horizon,  or  does  not  rise  at  all. 
The  moon  and  the  stars  shine  through  the 
day;  only,  at  noon,  they  are  pale  and  wan, 
and  in  the  southern  sky  a red,  fiery  glow, 
as  of  sunset,  burns  along  the  horizon,  and 
then  goes  out.  And  pleasantly  under  the 
silver  moon,  and  under  the  silent,  solemn 
stars,  ring  the  steel-shoes  of  the  skaters  on 
the  frozen  sea,  and  voices,  and  the  sound 
of  bells. 

And  now  the  Northern  Lights  begin  to 
burn,  faintly  at  first,  like  sunbeams  play- 
ing in  the  waters  of  the  blue  sea.  Then  a 
soft  crimson  glow  tinges  the  heavens. 
There  is  a blush  on  the  cheek  of  night. 
The  colors  come  and  go,  and  change  from 
crimson  to  gold,  from  gold  to  crimson. 
The  snow  is  stained  with  rosy  light.  Two- 


fold from  the  zenith,  east  and  west,  flames 
a fiery  sword  ; and  a broad  band  passes 
athwart  the  heavens  like  a summer  sunset. 
Soft  purple  clouds  come  sailing  over  the 
sky,  and  through  their  vapory  folds  the 
winking  stars  shine  white  as  silver.  With 
such  pomp  as  this  is  Merry  Christmas 
ushered  in,  though  only  a single  star  her- 
alded the  first  Christmas.  And  in  mem- 
ory of  that  day  the  Swedish  peasants  dance 
on  straw  ; and  the  peasant-girls  throw 
straws  at  the  timbered  roof  of  the  hall,  and 
for  every  one  that  sticks  in  a crack  shall  a 
groomsman  come  to  their  wedding.  Merry 
Christmas  indeed  ! For  pious  souls  there 
shall  be  church  songs  and  sermons,  but  for 
Swedish  peasants,  brandy  and  nut-brown 
ale  in  wooden  bowls  ; and  the  great  Yule- 
cake  crowned  with  a cheese,  and  garlanded 
with  apples,  and  upholding  a three-armed 
candlestick  over  the  Christmas  feast.  They 
may  tell  tales,  too,  of  J cins  Lundsbracka, 
and  Lunkenfus,  and  the  great  Riddar 
Finke  of  Pingsdaga.* 

And  now  the  glad,  leafy  midsummer 
full  of  blossoms  and  the  song  of  nightin- 
gales, is  come  ! Saint  John  has  taken  the 
flowers  and  festival  of  heathen  Balder ; 
and  in  every  village  there  is  a May-pole 
fifty  feet  high,  with  wreaths  and  roses  and 
ribbons  streaming  in  the  wind,  and  a noisy 
weather-cock  on  top,  to  tell  the  village 
whence  the  wind  cometh  and  whither  it 
goeth.  The  sun  does  not  set  till  ten  o’clock 
at  night ; and  the  children  are  at  play  in 
the  streets  an  hour  later.  The  windows  and 
doors  are  all  open,  and  you  may  sit  and 
read  till  midnight  without  a candle.  0, 
how  beautiful  is  the  summer  night,  which 
is  not  night,  but  a sunless  yet  unclouded 
day,  descending  upon  earth  with  dews  and 
shadows  and  refreshing  coolness  ! How 
beautiful  the  long,  mild  twilight,  which 
like  a silver  clasp  unites  to-day  with  yester- 
day ! How  beautiful  the  silent  hour,  when 
Morning  and  Evening  thus  sit  together, 
hand  in  hand,  beneath  the  starless  sky  of 
midnight ! From  the  church -tower  in  the 
public  square  the  bell  tolls  the  hour,  with 
a soft,  musical  chime  ; and  the  watchman, 
whose  watch-tower  is  the  belfry,  blows  a 
blast  in  his  horn,  for  each  stroke  of  the 
hammer,  and  four  times,  to  the  four  cor- 
ners of  the  heavens,  in  a sonorous  voice  he 
chants,  — 

“ Ho ! watchman , ho  ! 

Twelve  is  the  clock  ! 

God  keep  our  town 

From  fire  and  brand 

And  hostile  hand ! 

Twelve  is  the  clock  ! ” 

From  his  swallow’s  nest  in  the  belfry  he 
* Titles  of  Swedish  popular  tales. 


NOTES. 


401 


ean  see  the  sun  all  night  long  ; and  farther 
north  the  priest  stands  at  his  door  in  the 
warm  midnight,  and  lights  his  pipe  with  a 
common  burning-glass. 

Page  30.  The  Feast  of  the  Leafy  Pa- 
vilions. 

In  Swedish,  Lofhyddohogtiden,  the  Leaf- 
huts’ -high-tide. 

Page  30.  Horberg . 

The  peasant-painter  of  Sweden.  He  is 
known  chiefly  by  his  altar-pieces  in  the 
village  churches. 

Page  30.  Wallin. 

A distinguished  pulpit-orator  and  poet. 
He  is  particularly  remarkable  for  the  beau- 
ty and  sublimity  of  his  psalms. 

Page  45.  As  Lope  says. 

“ La  colera 

de  un  Espanol  sentado  no  se  templa, 
sino  le  representan  en  dos  horas 
hasta  el  final  juicio  desde  el  Genesis.” 

Lope  de  Vega. 

Page  46.  Abrenuncio  Satanas  ! 

<(  Digo,  Senora,  respondio  Sancho,  lo 
que  tengo  dicho,  que  de  los  azotes  abernun- 
cio.  Abrenuncio,  ha’oeis  de  decir,  Sancho, 
y .no  com o decis,  dijo  el  Duque.”  — Bon 
Quixote , Part  II.  ch.  35. 

Page  50.  Fray  Carrillo. 

The  allusion  here  is  to  a Spanish  Epi- 
gram. 

“ Siempre  Fray  Carr  llo  estas 
cansindonos  aca  fuera ; 
quien  en  tn  celda  estuviera 
para  no  verte  jamas  ! ” 

Bbhl  de  Faber.  Floresta,  No.  611. 

Page  50.  Padre  Francisco. 

This  is  from  an  Italian  popular  song. 

“ ‘ Padre  Francesco, 

Padre  Francesco ! ’ 

— Cosa  volete  del  Padre  Francesco  ? — 

‘ V’  e una  bella  ragazzina 
Che  si  vuo’e  confessar  ! ’ 

Fatte  1’  entrare,  fattel1  entrare! 

Che  la  voglio  confessare.” 

Kopisch.  Volksthiim lit  he  Poesien  aus  al- 
ien Mundarten  Italiens  und  seiner  In - 
seln , p.  194. 

Page  51.  Ave  ! cujus  calcem  dare. 

From  a monkish  hymn  of  the  twelfth 
century,  in  Sir  Alexander  Croke’s  Essay 
on  the  Origin , Progress , and  Beeline  of 
Rhyming  Latin  Verse,  p.  109. 

Page  54.  The  gold  of  the  Busne. 

Bnsne  is  the  name  given  by  the  Gypsies 
to  all  who  are  not  of  their  race. 


Page  54.  Count  of  the  Cales. 

The  Gypsies  call  themselves  Cales.  See 
Borrow’s  valuable  and  extremely  interest- 
ing work,  The  Zincali ; or  an  A ccount  of 
the  Gypsies  in  Spain.  London,  1841. 

Page  56.  Asks  if  his  money-bags  would 
rise. 

“ I Y volviendome  a un  lado,  vi  a un 
Avariento,  que  estaba  preguntando  a otro, 
(<pe  por  haber  sido  embafsamado,  y estar 
lexos  sus  tripas  no  hablaba,  porque  no 
habian  llegado  si  habian  de  resucitar  aquel 
dia  todos  los  enterrados)  si  resucitarian 
unos  bolsones  suyos  ? ” — El  Sueho  de  las 
Calaveras. 

Page  56.  And  amen  l said  my  Cid  the 
Campeador. 

A line  from  the  ancient  Poema  del  Cid. 

“ Amen,  dixo  Mio  Cid  el  Campeador.” 

Line  3044. 

Page  56.  The  river  of  his  thoughts. 

This  expression  is  from  Dante  ; 

“ Si  che  chiaro 

Per  essa  scenda  della  mente  il  flume.” 

Byron  has  likewise  used  the  expression  ; 
though  I do  not  recollect  in  which  of  his 
poems. 

Page  57.  Mari  Franca. 

A common  Spanish  proverb,  used  to  turn 
aside  a question  one  does  not  wish  to  an- 
swer ; 

“ Porque  casi  Mari  Franca 
quatro  leguas  de  Salamanca.” 

Page  57.  Ay,  soft,  emerald  eyes. 

The  Spaniards,  witli  good  reason,  con- 
sider this  color  of  the  eye  as  beautiful,  and 
celebrate  it  in  song  ; as,  for  example,  in 
the  well-known  Villancico : 

“ Ay  ojuelos  verdes, 
ay  los  mis  ojuelos, 
ay  hagan  los  cielos 
que  de  ml  te  acuerdes  ! 

Tengo  confianza 
de  mis  verdes  ojos.” 

Bbhl  de  Faber.  Floresta , No.  255. 

Dante  speaks  of  Beatrice’s  eyes  as  emer- 
alds. Purgatorio,  xxxi.  116.  Lami  says, 
in  his  Annotaziani,  “Erano  i suoi  ocelli  d’ 
un  turchino  verdiccro,  simile  a quel  del 
mare.” 

Page  58.  The  Avenging  Child. 

See  the  ancient  Ballads  of  El  Infante 
Vengador,  and  Calaynos. 

Page  58.  All  are  sleeping. 

From  the  Spanish.  Bbhl  de  Fabern 
Floresta , No.  282. 


402 


NOTES. 


Page  63.  Good  night. 

From  the  Spanish  ; as  are  likewise  the 
songs  immediately  following,  and  that 
which  commences  the  first  scene  of  Act  III. 

Page  70.  The  evil  eye. 

“ In  the  Gitano  language,  casting  the 
evil  eye  is  called  Querelar  nasula,  which 
simply  means  making  sick,  and  which,  ac- 
cording to  the  common  superstition,  is 
accomplished  by  casting  an  evil  look  at 
people,  especially  children,  who,  from  the 
tenderness  of  their  constitution,  are  sup- 
posed to  be  more  easily  blighted  than  those 
of  a more  mature  age.  After  receiving  the 
evil  glance,  they  fall  sick,  and  die  in  a few 
hours. 

“ The  Spaniards  have  very  little  to  say 
respecting  the  evil  eye,  though  the  belief 
in  it  is  very  prevalent,  especially  in  Anda- 
lusia, amongst  the  lower  orders.  A stag’s 
horn  is  considered  a good  safeguard,  and 
on  that  account  a small  horn,  tipped  with 
silver,  is  frequently  attached  to  the  chil- 
dren’s necks  by  means  of  a cord  braided 
from  the  hair  of  a black  mare’s  tail. 
Should  the  evil  glance  be  cast,  it  is  im- 
agined that  the  horn  receives  it,  and  in- 
stantly snaps  asunder.  Such  horns  may 
be  purchased  in  some  of  the  silversmiths’ 
shops  at  Seville.”  — Borrow’s  Zincali , 
Yol.  I.  ch.  ix. 

Page  70.  On  the  top  of  a mountain  I 
stand. 

This  and  the  following  scraps  of  song 
are  from  Borrow’s  Zincali  ; or  an  Account 
of  the  Gypsies  in  Spain. 

The  Gypsy  words  in  the  same  scene  may 
be  thus  interpreted  : — 

John- Dorados,  pieces  of  gold. 

Pigeon,  a simpleton. 

In  your  morocco,  stripped. 

Doves,  sheets. 

Moon,  a shirt. 

Chirelin,  a thief. 

Murcigalleros,  those  who  steal  at  night- 
fall. 

Rastilleros,  footpads. 

Hermit,  highway-robber. 

Planets,  candles. 

Commandments,  the  fingers. 

Saint  Martin  asleep,  to  rob  a person 
asleep. 

Lanterns,  eyes 

Goblin,  police  officer. 

Papagayo,  a spy. 

Vineyards  and  Dancing  John,  to  take 
flight. 

Page  74.  If  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden. 

From  the  Spanish  ; as  is  likewise  the 
song  of  the  Contrabandista  on  page  75. 


Page  77.  All  the  Foresters  of  Flan- 
ders. 

The  title  of  Foresters  was  given  to  the 
early  governors  of  Flanders,  appointed  by 
the  kings  of  France.  Lyderick  du  Bucq, 
in  the  days  of  Clotaire  the  Second,  was  the 
first  of  them  ; and  Beaudoin  Bras-de-Fer, 
who  stole  away  the  fair  Judith,  daughter 
of  Charles  the  Bald,  from  the  French 
court,  and  married  her  in  Bruges,  was  the 
last.  After  him  the  title  of  Forester  was 
changed  to  that  of  Count.  Philippe  d’ Al- 
sace, Guy  de  Dampierre,  and  Louis  de 
Crecy,  coming  later  in  the  order  of  time, 
were  therefore  rather  Counts  than  Forest- 
ers. Philippe  went  twice  to  the  Holy 
Land  as  a Crusader,  and  died  of  the  plague 
at  St.  Jean-d’Acre,  shortly  after  the  cap- 
ture of  the  city  by  the  Christians.  Guy 
de  Dampierre  died  in  the  prison  of  Com- 
piegne.  Louis  de  Crecy  was  son  and  suc- 
cessor of  Robert  de  Bethune,  who  strangled 
his  wife,  Yolande  de  Bourgogne,  with  the 
bridle  of  his  horse,  for  having  poisoned,  at 
the  age  of  eleven  years,  Charles,  his  son 
by  his  first  wife,  Blanche  d’ Anjou. 

Page  77.  Stately  dames,  like  queens  at- 
tended. 

When  Philippe-le-Bel,  king  of  France, 
visited  Flanders  with  his  queen,  she  was 
so  astonished  at  the  magnificence  of  the 
dames  of  Bruges,  that  she  exclaimed : 
“ Je  croyais  etre  seule  reine  ici,  mais  il 
parait  que  ceux  de  Flandre  qui  se  trouvent 
dans  nos  prisons  sont  tous  des  princes,  car 
leurs  femmes  sont  habillees  comme  des 
princesses  et  des  reines.” 

When  the  burgomasters  of  Ghent,  Bru- 
ges, and  Ypres  went  to  Paris  to  pay 
homage  to  King  John,  in  1351,  they  were 
received  with  great  pomp  and  distinction  ; 
but,  being  invited  to  a festival,  they  ob- 
served that  their  seats  at  table  were  not 
furnished  with  cushions  ; whereupon,  to 
make  known  their  displeasure  at  this  want 
of  regard  to  their  dignity,  they  folded 
their  richly  embroidered  cloaks  and  seated 
themselves  upon  them.  On  rising  from 
table,  they  left  their  cloaks  behind  them, 
and,  being  informed  of  their  apparent  for- 
getfulness, Simon  van  Eertrycke,  burgo- 
master of  Bruges,  replied,  “We  Flemings 
are  not  in  the  habit  of  carrying  away  our 
cushions  after  dinner.” 

Page  77.  Knights  who  bore  the  Fleece 
of  Gild. 

Philippe  de  Bourgogne,  surnamed  Le 
Bon,  espoused  Isabella  of  Portugal  on  the 
10th  of  January,  1430  ; and  on  the  same 
day  instituted  the  famous  order  of  tho 
Fleece  of  Gold. 


NOTES. 


403 


Page  77.  1 beheld  the  gentle  Mary. 

Marie  de  Valois,  Duchess  of  Burgundy, 
was  left  by  the  death  of  her  father, 
Charles-le-Temeraire,  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
the  richest  heiress  of  Europe.  She  came 
to  Bruges,  as  Countess  of  Flanders,  in 
1477,  and  in  the  same  year  was  married  by 
proxy  to  the  Archduke  Maximilian.  Ac- 
cording to  the  custom  of  the  time,  the 
Duke  of  Bavaria,  Maximilian’s  substitute, 
slept  with  the  princess.  They  were  both 
in  complete  dress,  separated  by  a naked 
sword,  and  attended  by  four  armed  guards. 
Marie  was  adored  by  her  subjects  for  her 
gentleness  and  her  many  other  virtues. 

Maximilian  was  son  of  the  Emperor 
Frederick  the  Third,  and  is  the  same  per- 
son mentioned  afterwards  in  the  poem  of 
Nuremberg  as  the  Kaiser  Maximilian,  and 
the  hero  of  Pfinzing’s  poem  of  Teuerdank. 
Having  been  imprisoned  by  the  revolted 
burghers  of  Bruges,  they  refused  to  release 
him,  till  he  consented  to  kneel  in  the  pub- 
lic square,  and  to  swear  on  the  Holy  Evan- 
gelists and  the  body  of  Saint  Donatus,  that 
he  would  not  take  vengeance  upon  them 
for  their  rebellion. 

Page  77.  The  bloody  battle  ( f the  Spurs 
of  Gold . 

This  battle,  the  most  memorable  in 
Flemish  history,  was  fought  under  the 
walls  of  Courtray,  on  the  11th  of  July, 
1302,  between  the  French  and  the  Flem- 
ings, the  former  commanded  by  Robert, 
Comte  d’ Artois,  and  the  latter  by  Guil- 
laume de  Juliers,  and  Jean,  Comte  de 
Namur.  The  French  army  was  completely 
routed,  with  a loss  of  twenty  thousand  in- 
fantry and  seven  thousand  cavalry ; among 
whom  were  sixty-three  princes,  dukes,  and 
counts,  seven  hundred  lords-banneret,  and 
eleven  hundred  noblemen.  The  flower  of 
the  French  nobility  perished  on  that  day  ; 
to  which  history  has  given  the  name  of  the 
Jour  nee  des  Eperons  d'Or , from  the  great 
number  of  golden  spurs  found  on  the  field 
of  battle.  Seven  hundred  of  them  were 
hung  up  as  a trophy  in  the  church  of  No- 
tre Dame  de  Courtray  ; and,  as  the  cava- 
liers of  that  day  wore  but  a single  spur 
each,  these  vouched  to  God  for  the  violent 
and  bloody  death  of  seven  hundred  of  his 
creatures. 

Page  77.  Saw  the  fight  at  Minnewater. 

When  the  inhabitants  of  Bruges  were 
digging  a canal  at  Minnewater,  to  bring 
the  waters  of  the  Lys  from  Deynze  to  their 
city,  they  were  attacked  and  routed  by  the 
citizens  of  Ghent,  whose  commerce  would 
have  been  much  injured  by  the  canal. 
They  were  led  by  Jean  Lyons,  captain  of  a 


military  company  at  Ghent,  called  the 
Chaperons  Blancs.  He  had  great  sway 
over  the  turbulent  populace,  who,  in  those 
prosperous  times  of  the  city,  gained  an 
easy  livelihood  by  laboring  two  or  three 
days  in  the  week,  and  had  the  remaining 
four  or  five  to  devote  to  public  affairs. 
The  fight  at  Minnewater  was  followed  by 
open  rebellion  against  Louis  de  Maele,  the 
Count  of  Flanders  and  Protector  of  Bruges. 
His  superb  chateau  of  Wondelghem  was 
pillaged  and  burnt  ; and  the  insurgents 
forced  the  gates  of  Bruges,  and  entered  in 
triumph,  with  Lyons  mounted  at  their 
head.  A few  days  afterwards  he  died  sud- 
denly, perhaps  by  poison. 

Meanwhile  the  insurgents  received  a 
check  at  the  village  of  Nevele  ; and  two 
hundred  of  them  perished  in  the  church, 
which  was  burned  by  the  Count’s  orders. 
One  of  the  chiefs,  Jean  de  Lannoy,  took 
refuge  in  the  belfry.  From  the  summit  of 
the  tower  he  held  forth  his  purse  filled 
with  gold,  and  begged  for  deliverance.  It 
was  in  vain  His  enemies  cried  to  him 
from  below  to  save  himself  as  best  he 
might  ; and,  half  suffocated  with  smoke 
and  flame,  he  threw  himself  from  the  tow- 
er and  perished  at  their  feet.  Peace  was 
soon  afterwards  established,  and  the  Count 
retired  to  faithful  Bruges. 

Page  77.  The  Golden  Dragon's  nest. 

The  Golden  Dragon,  taken  from  the 
church  of  St.  Sophia,  at  Constantinople,  in 
one  of  the  Crusades,  and  placed  on  the 
belfry  of  Bruges,  was  afterwards  trans- 
ported to  Gheni  by  Philip  van  Artevelde, 
and  still  adorns  the  belfry  of  that  city. 

The  inscription  on  the  alarm-bell  at 
Ghent  is,  “ Mynen  naern  is  Boland;  als 
ik  klep  is  er  brand , and  als  ik  luy  is  er 
victorie  in  het  land."  My  name  is  Roland  ; 
when  I toll  there  is  fire,  and  when  I ring 
there  is  victory  in  the  land. 

Page  79.  That  their  great  imperial 
city  stretched  its  hand  through  every  clime. 

An  old  popular  proverb  of  the  town  runs 
thus : — 

“ Niirnberg'ls  Hand 
Geht  durch  alle  Land .” 

Nuremberg’s  hand 
Goes  through  every  land. 

Page  79.  Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing 
Kaiser  Maximilian' s praise. 

Melchior  Pfinzing  was  one  of  the  most 
celebrated  German  poets  of  the  sixteenth 
century.  The  hero  of  his  Teuerdank  was 
the  reigning  emperor,  Maximilian  ; and 
the  poem  was  to  the  Germans  of  that  day 
what  the  Orlando  Furioso  was  to  the  Ital- 


404 


NOTES. 


ians.  Maximilian  is  mentioned  before,  in 
the  Belfry  of  Bruges.  See  page  77. 

Page  79.  In  the  church  of  sainted  Se- 
bald  sleeps  enshrined  his  holy  dust. 

The  tomb  of  Saint  Sebald,  in  the  church 
which  bears  his  name,  is  one  of  the  richest 
works  of  art  in  Nuremberg.  It  is  of 
bronze,  and  was  cast  by  Peter  Vischer  and 
his  sons,  who  labored  upon  it  thirteen 
years.  It  is  adorned  with  nearly  one 
hundred  figures,  among  which  those  of  the 
Twelve  Apostles  are  conspicuous  for  size 
and  beauty. 

Page  80.  In  the  church  of  soAnted  Law- 
rence stands  a pix  of  sculpture  rare. 

This  pix,  or  tabernacle  for  the  vessels  of 
the  sacrament,  is  by  the  hand  of  Adam 
Kraft.  It  is  an  exquisite  piece  of  sculp- 
ture in  white  stone,  and  rises  to  the  height 
of  sixty-four  feet.  It  stands  in  the  choir, 
whose  richly  painted  windows  cover  it 
with  varied  colors. 

Page  80.  Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise 
Masters. 

The  Twelve  Wise  Masters  was  the  title 
of  the  original  corporation  of  the  Master- 
singers.  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler  of  Nu- 
remberg, though  not  one  of  the  original 
Twelve,  was  the  most  renowned  of  the 
Mastersingers,  as  well  as  the  most  volumi- 
nous. He  nourished  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury ; and  left  behind  him  thirty-four  folio 
volumes  of  manuscript,  containing  two 
hundred  and  eight  plays,  one  thousand 
and  seven  hundred  comic  tales,  and  be- 
tween four  and  five  thousand  lyric  poems. 

Page  80.  As  in  Adam  Puschman[s 
song. 

Adam  Puschman,  in  his  poem  on  the 
death  of  Hans  Sachs,  describes  him  as  he 
appeared  in  a vision  : — 

“ An  old  man, 

Gray  and  white,  and  dove-like, 

Who  had,  m sooth,  a great  beard, 

And  read  in  a fair,  great  book, 

Beautiful  with  golden  clasps.” 

Page  84.  The  Occultation  of  Orion. 

Astronomically  speaking,  this  title  is 
incorrect ; as  I apply  to  a constellation 
what  can  properly  be  applied  to  some  of 
its  stars  only.  But  my  observation  is 
made  from  the  hill  of  song,  and  not  from 
that  of  science  ; and  will,  I trust,  be  found 
sufficiently  accurate  for  the  present  pur- 
pose. 

Page  86.  Who,  unharmed,  on  his  tusks 
once  caught  the  bolts  of  the  thunder. 

“A  delegation  of  warriors  from  the  Del- 


aware tribe  having  visited  the  governor  of 
•Virginia,  during  the  Revolution,  on  mat- 
ters of  business,  after  these  had  been  dis- 
cussed, and  settled  in  council,  the  governor 
asked  them  some  questions  relative  to 
their  country,  and  among  others,  what 
they  knew  or  had  heard  of  the  animal 
whose  bones  were  found  at  the  Saltlicks 
on  the  Ohio.  Their  chief  speaker  immedi- 
ately put  himself  into  an  attitude  of  ora- 
tory, and  with  a pomp  suited  to  what  he 
conceived  the  elevation  of  his  subject,  in- 
formed him  that  it  was  a tradition  handed 
down  from  their  fathers,  ‘ that  in  ancient 
times  a herd  of  these  tremendous  animals 
came  to  the  Big-bone  licks,  and  began  an 
universal  destruction  of  the  bear,  deer, 
elks,  buffaloes,  and  other  animals  which 
had  been  created  for  the  use  of  the  Indians  : 
that  the  Great  Man  above,  looking  down 
and  seeing  this,  was  so  enraged  that  he 
seized  his  lightning,  descended  on  the  earth, 
seated  himself  on  a neighboring  mountain, 
on  a rock  of  which  his  seat  and  the  print 
of  his  feet  are  still  to  be  seen,  and  hurled 
his  bolts  among  them  till  the  whole  were 
slaughtered,  except  the  big  bull,  who,  pre- 
senting his  forehead  to  the  shafts,  shook 
them  off  as  they  fell  ; but  missing  one  at 
length,  it  wounded  him  in  the  side; 
whereon,  springing  round,  he  bounded 
over  the  Ohio,  over  the  Wabash,  the  Illi- 
nois, and  finally  over  the  great  lakes, 
where  he  is  living  at  this  day.’”  — Jef- 
ferson’s Notes  on  Virginia,  Query  VI. 

Page  88.  Walter  von  der  Vogelvmd. 

Walter  von  der  Vogel weid,  or  Bird- 
Meadow,  was  one  of  the  principal  Minne- 
singers of  the  thirteenth  century.  He 
triumphed  over  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen 
in  that  poetic  contest  at  Wartburg  Castle, 
known  in  literary  history  as  the  War  of 
Wartburg 

Page  91.  Like  imperial  Charlemagne. 

Charlemagne  may  be  called  by  pre-emi- 
nence the  monarch  of  farmers.  According 
to  the  German  tradition,  in  seasons  of  great 
abundance,  his  spirit  crosses  the  Rhine  on 
a golden  bridge  at  Bingen,  and  blesses  the 
cornfields  and  the  vineyards.  During  his 
lifetime,  he  did  not  disdain,  says  Montes- 
quieu, “to  sell  the  eggs  from  the  farm- 
yards of  his  domains,  and  the  superfluous 
vegetables  of  his  gardens  ; while  he  distrib- 
uted among  his  people  the  wealth  of  the 
Lombards  and  the  immense  treasures  of 
the  Huns.” 

Page  124. 

Behold,  at  last, 

Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 
Is  swung  into  its  place . 


NOTES. 


405 


I wish  to  anticipate  a criticism  on  this  pas-  > 
sage,  by  stating,  that  sometimes,  though  not 
usually,  vessels  are  launched  fully  sparred 
ancl  rigged.  I have  availed  myself  of  the 
exception  as  better  suited  to  my  purposes 
than  the  general  rule ; but  the  reader  will 
see  that  it  is  neither  a blunder  nor  a poetic 
license.  On  this  subject  a friend  in  Port- 
land, Maine,  writes  me  thus  : — 

“ In  this  State,  and  also,  I am  told,  in 
New  York,  ships  are  sometimes  rigged 
upon  the  stocks,  in  order  to  save  time,  or 
to  make  a show.  There  was  a fine,  large 
ship  launched  last  summer  at  Ellsworth, 
fully  sparred  and  rigged.  Some  years  ago 
a ship  was  launched  here,  with  her  rigging, 
spars,  sails,  and  cargo  aboard.  She  sailed 
the  next  day  and  — was  never  heard  of 
again  ! I hope  this  will  not  be  the  fate 
of  your  poem ! ” 

Page  127.  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert 

“When  the  wind  abated  and  the  vessels 
were  near  enough,  the  Admiral  was  seen 
constantly  sitting  in  the  stern,  with  a book 
in  his  hand.  On  the  9th  of  September  he 
was  seen  for  the  last  time,  and  was  heard 
by  the  people  of  the  Hind  to  say,  ‘ We  are 
as  near  heaven  by  sea  as  by  land.’  In  the 
following  night,  the  lights  of  the  ship  sud- 
denly disappeared.  The  people  in  the  other 
vessel  kept  a good  lookout  for  him  during 
the  remainder  of  the  voyage.  On  the  22d 
of  September  they  arrived,  through  much 
tempest  and  peril,  at  Falmouth.  But  noth- 
ing more  was  seen  or  heard  of  the  Admi- 
ral.”— Belknap’s  American  Biography, 
I.  203. 

Page  135.  The  Blind  Girl  of  Castel- 
Cuille. 

Jasmin,  the  author  of  this  beautiful 
poem,  is  to  the  South  of  France  what 
Burns  is  to  the  South  of  Scotland,  — the 
representative  of  the  heart  of  the  people, 
— one  of  those  happy  bards  who  are  born 
with  their  mouths  full  of  birds  {la  bouco 
pleno  d' aouzelous).  He  has  written  his 
own  biography  in  a poetic  form,  and  the 
simple  narrative  of  his  poverty,  his  strug- 
gles, and  his  triumphs,  is  very  touching. 
He  still  lives  at  Agen,  on  the  Garonne  ; 
and  long  may  he  live  there  to  delight  his 
native  land  with  native  songs  ! 

The  following  description  of  his  person 
and  way  of  life  is  taken  from  the  graphic 
pages  of  “ Bearn  and  the  Pyrenees,”  by 
Louisa  Stuart  Costello,  whose  charming 
pen  has  done  so  much  to  illustrate  the 
French  provinces  and  their  literature. 

“At  the  entrance  of  the  promenade,  Du 
Oravier.  is  a row  of  small  houses,  — some 
cafes , others  shops,  the  indication  of  which 


is  a painted  cloth  placed  across  the  way, 
with  the  owner’s  name  in  bright  gold  let* 
ters,  in  the  manner  of  the  arcades  in  the 
streets,  and  their  announcements.  One  of 
the  most  glaring  of  these  was,  we  observed, 
a bright  blue  flag,  bordered  with  gold  ; on 
which,  in  large  gold  letters,  appeared  the 
name  of  ‘Jasmin,  Coiffeur.’  We  entered, 
and  were  welcomed  by  a smiling,  dark-eyed 
woman,  who  informed  us  that  her  husband 
was  busy  at  that  moment  dressing  a cus- 
tomer’s hair,  but  he  was  desirous  to  receive 
us,  and  begged  we  would  walk  into  his  par* 
lor  at  the  back  of  the  shop. 

“She  exhibited  to  us  a laurel  crown  of 
gold,  of  delicate  workmanship,  sent  from 
the  city  of  Clemence  Isaure,  Toulouse,  to 
the  poet;  who  will  probably  one  day  take 
his  place  in  the  capitoul.  Next  came  a 
golden  cup,  with  an  inscription  in  his  honor, 
given  by  the  citizens  of  Auch ; a gold  wratch, 
chain,  and  seals,  sent  by  the  king,  Louis 
Philippe;  an  emerald  ring  worn  and  pre^ 
sented  by  the  lamented  Duke  of  Orleans  * 
a pearl  pin,  by  the  graceful  Duchess,  who, 
on  the  poet’s  visit  to  Paris  accompanied  by 
his  son,  received  him  in  the  words  he  puts 
into  the  mouth  of  Henri  Quatre:-v 
‘ Brabes  Gaseous ! 

A mown  amou  per  bous  aou  dibes  ereyre : 

Benes  ! benes  ! ey  plaze  de  bous  beyre  : 
Aproucha  bous  I ’ 

A fine  service  of  linen,  the  offering  of  the 
town  of  Pau,  after  its  citizens  had  given 
fetes  in  his  honor,  and  loaded  him  with  ca- 
resses and  praises  ; and  knickknacks  and 
jewels  of  all  descriptions  offered  to  him  by 
lady-ambassadresses,  and  great  lords ; Eng- 
lish * misses  ’ and  1 miladis  ’ ; and  French, 
and  foreigners  of  all  nations  who  did  or  did 
not  understand  Gascon. 

“All  this,  though  startling,  was  not  con- 
vincing ; J asmin,  the  barber,  might  only  be 
a fashion,  a furore,  a caprice,  after  all;  and 
it  was  evident  that  he  knew  how  to  get  up 
a scene  well.  When  we  had  become  nearly 
tired  of  looking  over  these  tributes  to  his 
genius,  the  door  opened,  and  the  poet  him- 
self appeared.  His  manner  was  free  and 
unembarrassed,  well-bred,  and  lively ; he 
received  our  compliments  naturally,  and 
like  one  accustomed  to  homage  ; said  he 
was  ill,  and  unfortunately  too  hoarse  to 
read  anything  to  us,  or  should  have  been 
delighted  to  do  so.  He  spoke  with  a broad 
Gascon  accent,  and  very  rapidly  and  elo- 
quently; ran  over  the  story  of  his  successes; 
told  us  that  his  grandfather  had  been  a beg- 
gar, and  all  his  family  very  poor;  that  he 
was  now  as  rich  as  he  wished  to  be;  his  son 
placed  in  a good  position  at  Nantes;  then 
showed  us  his  son’s  picture,  and  spoke  of 


4C6 


NOTES. 


his  disposition;  to  which  his  brisk  little 
wife  added,  that,  though  no  fool,  he  had 
not  his  father’s  genius,  to  which  truth  Jas- 
min assented  as  a matter  of  course.  I told 
him  of  having  seen  mention  made  of  him 
in  an  English  review  ; which  he  said  had 
been  sent  him  by  Lord  Durham,  who  had 
paid  him  a visit ; and  I then  spoke  of  ‘ Me 
cal  mouri  ’ as  known  to  me.  This  was 
enough  to  make  him  forget  his  hoarseness 
and  every  other  evil  : it  would  never  do  for 
me  to  imagine  that  that  little  song  was  his 
best  composition  ; it  was  merely  his  first ; 
he  must  try  to  read  to  me  a little  of 
‘L’Abuglo,’ — a few  verses  of  ‘ Fran^ou- 
neto.’  ‘ You  will  be  charmed,’  said  he; 

‘ but  if  I were  well,  and  you  would  give 
me  the  pleasure  of  your  company  for  some 
time,  if  you  were  not  merely  running 
through  Agen,  I would  kill  you  with  weep- 
ing, — I would  make  you  die  with  distress 
for  my  poor  Margarido,  — my  pretty  Fran- 
90  uneto  ! ’ 

“He  caught  up  two  copies  of  his  book, 
from  a pile  lying  on  the  table,  and  making 
us  sit  close  to  him,  he  pointed  out  the 
French  translation  on  one  side,  which  he 
told  us  to  follow  while  he  read  in  Gascon. 
He  began  in  a rich,  soft  voice,  and  as  he 
advanced,  the  surprise  of  Hamlet  on  hear- 
ing the  player-king  recite  the  disasters  of 
Hecuba  was  but  a type  of  ours,  to  find 
ourselves  carried  away  by  the  spell  of  his 
enthusiasm.  His  eyes  swam  in  tears;  he 
became  pale  and  red  ; he  trembled;  he  re- 
covered himself;  his  face  was  now  joyous, 
now  exulting,  gay,  jocose;  in  fact,  he  was 
twenty  actors  in  one;  he  rang  the  changes 
from  Rachel  to  Bouffe;  and  he  finished  by 
delighting  us,  besides  beguiling  us  of  our 
tears,  and  overwhelming  us  with  astonish- 
ment. 

“ He  would  have  been  a treasure  on  the 
stage  ; for  he  is  still,  though  his  first  youth 
is  past,  remarkably  good-looking  and  strik- 
ing ; with  black,  sparkling  eyes,  of  intense 
expression;  a fine,  ruddy  complexion;  a 
countenance  of  wondrous  mobility ; a good 
figure;  and  action  full  of  fire  and  grace  ; he 
has  handsome  hands,  which  he  uses  with 
infinite  effect;  and,  on  the  whole,  he  is  the 
best  actor  of  the  kind  I ever  saw.  I could 
now  quite  understand  what  a troubadour  1 
or  jongleur  might  be,  and  I look  upon 
Jasmin  as  a revived  specimen  of  that  ex- 
tinct race.  Such  as  he  is  might  have  been 
Gaucelm  Faidit,  of  Avignon,  the  friend  of 
Coeur  de  Lion,  who  lamented  the  death  of  | 
the  hero  in  such  moving  strains;  such  might  j 
have  been  Bernard  de  Ventadour,  who  sang  , 
the  praises  of  Queen  Elinore’s  beauty ; such  j 
Geoffrey  Rudel,  of  Blaye,  on  his  own  Ga-  ! 
ronne  such  the  wild  Vidal  : certain  it  is, 


that  none  of  these  troubadours  of  old  could 
more  move,  by  their  singing  or  reciting, 
than  Jasmin,  in  whom  all  their  long-smoth- 
ered fire  and  traditional  magic  seems  re- 
illumined. 

“We  found  we  had  stayed  hours  instead 
of  minutes  with  the  poet;  but  he  would 
not  hear  of  any  apology",  — only  regretted 
that  his  voice  was  so  out  of  tune,  in  con- 
sequence of  a violent  cold,  under  which  he 
was  really  laboring,  and  hoped  to  see  us 
again.  He  told  us  our  countrywomen  of  Pau 
had  laden  him  with  kindness  and  attention, 
and  spoke  with  such  enthusiasm  of  the 
beauty  of  certain  4 misses,’  that  I feared 
his  little  wife  would  feel  somewhat  piqued; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  she  stood  by,  smiling 
and  happy,  and  enjoying  the  stories  of  his 
triumphs.  I remarked  that  he  had  restored 
the  poetry  of  the  troubadours  ; asked  him 
if  he  knew  their  songs;  and  said  he  was 
worthy  to  stand  at  their  head.  ‘ I am,  in- 
deed, a troubadour,’  said  he,  with  energy; 

‘ but  I am  far  beyond  them  all : they  were 
but  beginners ; they  never  composed  a poem 
like  my  Fran90uneto  ! there  are  110  poets  in 
France  now,  — - there  cannot  be  ; the  lan- 
guage does  not  admit  of  it;  where  is  the 
fire,  the  spirit,  the  expression,  the  tender- 
ness, the  force  of  the  Gascon  '(  French  is 
but  the  ladder  to  reach  to  the  first  floor  of 
Gascon,  — how  can  you  get  up  to  a height 
except  by  a ladder ! ’ 

“ I returned  by  Agen,  after  an  absence 
in  the  Pyrenees  of  some  months,  and  re- 
newed my  acquaintance  with  Jasmin  and 
his  dark-eyed  wife.  I did  not  expect  that 
I should  be  recognized ; but  the  moment  I 
entered  the  little  shop  I was  hailed  as  an 
old  friend.  ‘ Ah  ! ’ cried  Jasmin,  4 enfin  la 
voila  encore  ! ’ I could  not  but  be  flattered 
by  this  recollection,  but  soon  found  it  was 
less  on  my  own  account  that  I was  thus 
welcomed,  than  because  a circumstance 
had  occurred  to  the  poet  which  he  thought 
I could  perhaps  explain.  He  produced 
several  French  newspapers,  in  which  he 
pointed  out  to  me  an  article  headed  ‘Jas- 
min h Londres  ’ ; being  a translation  of  cer- 
tain notices  of  himself,  which  had  appeared 
’ in  a leading  English  literary  journal.  He 
1 had,  he  said,  been  informed  of  the  honor 
done  him  by  numerous  friends,  and  assured 
me  his  fame  had  been  much  spread  by  this 
means  ; and  he  was  so  delighted  on  the 
occasion,  that  he  had  resolved  to  learn  Eng- 
I lish,  in  order  that  he  might  judge  of  the 
; translations  from  his  works,  which,  he  had 
; been  told,  were  well  done.  I enjoyed  his 
| surprise,  while  I informed  him  that  I knew 
! who  was  the  reviewer  and  translator  ; and 
explained  the  reason  for  the  verses  giving 


NOTES. 


407 


pleasure  in  an  English  dress  to  be  the  su- 
perior simplicity  of  the  English  language 
over  Modern  French,  for  which  he  has  a 
great  contempt,  as  unfitted  for  lyrical  com- 
position. He  inquired  of  me  respecting 
Burns,  to  whom  he  had  been  likened;  and 
begged  me  to  tell  him  something  of  Moore. 
The  delight  of  himself  and  his  wife  was 
amusing,  at  having  discovered  a secret 
which  had  puzzled  them  so  long. 

“ He  had  a thousand  things  to  tell  me  ; 
in  particular,  that  he  had  only  the  day  be- 
fore received  a letter  from  the  Duchess  of 
Orleans,  informing  him  that  she  had  or- 
dered a medal  of  her  late  husband  to  be 
struck,  the  first  of  which  would  be  sent  to 
him : she  also  announced  to  him  the  agree- 
able news  of  the  king  having  granted  him 
a pension  of  a thousand  francs.  He  smiled 
and  wept  by  turns,  as  he  told  us  all  this ; 
and  declared,  much  as  he  was  elated  at  the 
possession  of  a sum  which  made  him  a rich 
man  for  life,  the  kindness  of  the  Duchess 
gratified  him  even  more. 

“He  then  made  us  sit  down  while  he  read 
us  two  new  poems ; both  charming,  and  full 
of  grace  and  naivete ; and  one  very  affect- 
ing, being  an  address  to  the  king,  alluding 
to  the  death  of  his  son.  As  he  read,  his 
wife  stood  by,  and  fearing  we  did  not  quite 
comprehend  his  language,  she  made  a re- 
mark to  that  effect  : to  which  he  answered 
impatiently,  ‘ Nonsense, — don’t  you  see 
they  are  in  tears  l.  ’ This  was  unanswer- 
able ; and  we  were  allowed  to  hear  the  poem 
to  the  end;  and  I certainly  never  listened 
to  anything  more  feelingly  and  energetically 
delivered. 

“We  had  much  conversation,  for  he  was 
anxious  to  detain  us,  and,  in  the  course  of 
it,  he  told  me  he  had  been  by  some  accused 
of  vanity.  ‘0,’he  rejoined,  ‘ what  would 
you  have  ’ I am  a child  of  nature,  and  can- 
not conceal  my  feelings ; the  only  difference 
between  me  and  a man  of  refinement  is, 
that  he  knows  how  to  conceal  his  vanity 
and  exultation  at  success,  which  I let  every- 
body see.’” — Bearn  and  the  Pyrenees , I. 
369,  et  seq. 

Page  140.  A Christmas  Carol. 

The  following  description  of  Christmas 
in  Burgundy  is  from  M.  Fertiault’s  Coup 
d'CEil  sitr  les  Noels  en  Bourgogne , prefixed 
to  the  Paris  edition  of  Les  Noels  Bourgui- 
gnons  de  Bernard-  de  la  Monnoye  ( Gui 
Bardzai ),  1842. 

“Every  year  at  the  approach  of  Advent, 
people  refresh  their  memories,  clear  their 
throats,  and  begin  preluding,  in  the  long 
evenings  by  the  fireside,  those  carols  whose 
invariable  and  eternal  theme  is  the  coming 
of  the  Messiah.  They  take  from  old  clos- 


ets pamphlets,  little  collections  begrimed 
with  dust  and  smoke,  to  which  the  press, 
and  sometimes  the  pen,  has  consigned  these 
songs  ; and  as  soon  as  the  first  Sunday 
of  Advent  sounds,  they  gossip,  they  gad 
about,  they  sit  together  by  the  fireside, 
sometimes  at  one  house,  sometimes  at  an- 
other, taking  turns  in  paying  for  the  chest- 
nuts and  white  wine,  but  singing  with  one 
common  voice  the  grotesque  praises  of  the 
Little  Jesus.  There  are  very  few  villages 
even,  which,  during  all  the  evenings  of  Ad- 
vent, do  not  hear  some  of  these  curious 
canticles  shouted  in  their  streets,  to  the 
nasal  drone  of  bagpipes.  In  this  case  the 
minstrel  comes  as  a reinforcement  to  the 
singers  at  the  fireside;  he  brings  and  adds 
his  dose  of  joy  (spontaneous  or  mercenary, 
it  matters  little  which)  to  the  joy  which 
breathes  around  the  heartli-stone;  and 
when  the  voices  vibrate  and  resound,  one 
voice  more  is  always  welcome.  There,  it 
is  not  the  purity  of  the  notes  which  makes 
the  concert,  but  the  quantity,  — non  qual - 
it  as,  sed  quantitas ; then  (to  finish  at 
once  with  the  minstrel),  when  the  Saviour 
has  at  length  been  born  in  the  manger,  and 
the  beautiful  Christmas  Eve  is  passed,  the 
rustic  piper  makes  his  round  among  the 
houses,  where  every  one  compliments  and 
thanks  him,  and,  moreover,  gives  him  in 
small  coin  the  price  of  the  shrill  notes  with 
which  he  has  enlivened  the  evening  enter- 
tainments. 

“More  or  less  until  Christmas  Eve,  all 
goes  on  in  this  way  among  our  devout  sing- 
ers, with  the  difference  of  some  gallons  of 
wine  or  some  hundreds  of  chestnuts.  But 
this  famous  eve  once  come,  the  scale  is 
pitched  upon  a higher  key;  the  closing 
evening  must  be  a memorable  one.  The 
toilet  is  begun  at  nightfall ; then  comes 
the  hour  of  supper,  admonishing  divers  ap- 
petites ; and  groups,  as  numerous  as  possi- 
ble, are  formed  to  take  together  this  com- 
fortable evening  repast.  The  supper  fin- 
ished, a circle  gathers  around  the  hearth, 
which  is  arranged  and  set  in  order  this 
evening  after  a particular  fashion,  and 
which  at  a later  hour  of  the  night  is  to  be- 
come the  object  of  special  interest  to  the 
children.  On  the  burning  brands  an  enor- 
mous log  has  been  placed.  This  log  as- 
suredly does  not  change  its  nature,  but  it 
changes  its  name  during  this  evening  : it  is 
called  the  Suche  (the  Yule-log).  ‘Look 
you,’  say  they  to  the  children,  ‘ if  you  are 
good  this  evening,  Noel  ’ (for  with  children 
one  must  always  personify)  ‘ will  rain  down 
sugar-plums  in  the  night.’  And  the  chil- 
dren sit  demurely,  keeping  as  quiet  as 
their  turbulent  little  natures  will  permit. 
The  groups  of  older  persons,  not  always  as 


408 


NOTES. 


orderly  as  the  children,  seize  this  good  op- 
portunity to  surrender  themselves  with 
merry  hearts  and  boisterous  voices  to  the 
chanted  worship  of  the  miraculous  Noel. 
For  this  final  solemnity,  they  have  kept 
the  most  powerful,  the  most  enthusiastic, 
the  most  electrifying  carols.  Noel  ! Noel  ! 
Noel ! This  magic  word  resounds  on  all 
sides  ; it  seasons  every  sauce,  it  is  served 
up  with  every  course.  Of  the  thousands 
of  canticles  which  are  heard  on  this  famous 
eve,  ninety-nine  in  a hundred  begin  and 
end  with  this  word;  which  is,  one  may 
say,  their  Alpha  and  Omega,  their  crown 
and  footstool.  This  last  evening,  the  mer- 
ry-making is  prolonged.  Instead  of  retir- 
ing at  ten  or  eleven  o’clock,  as  is  generally 
done  on  all  the  preceding  evenings,  they 
wait  for  the  stroke  of  midnight : this  word 
sufficiently  proclaims  to  what  ceremony 
they  are  going  to  repair.  For  ten  minutes 
or  a quarter  of  an  hour,  the  bells  have  been 
calling  the  faithful  with  a triple-bob-ma:or ; 
and  each  one,  furnished  with  a little  taper 
streaked  with  various  colors  (the  Christ- 
mas Candle),  goes  through  the  crowded 
streets,  where  the  lanterns  are  dancing  like 
Will-o’-the-Wisps,  at  the  impatient  sum- 
mons of  the  multitudinous  chimes.  It  is 
the  Midnight  Mass.  Once  inside  the 
church,  they  hear  with  more  or  less  piety 
the  Mass,  emblematic  of  the  coming  of  the 
Messiah.  Then  in  tumult  and  great  haste 
they  return  homeward,  always  in  numer- 
ous groups  ; they  salute  the  Yule-log;  they 
pay  homage  to  the  hearth ; they  sit  down 
at  table;  and,  amid  songs  which  rever- 
berate louder  than  ever,  make  this  meal  of 
after- Christmas,  so  long  looked  for,  so 
cherished,  so  joyous,  so  noisy,  and  which 
it  has  been  thought  lit  to  call,  we  hardly 
know  why,  Rossignon.  The  supper  eaten 
at  nightfall  is  no  impediment,  as  you  may 
imagine,  to  the  appetite’s  returning;  above 
all,  if  the  going  to  and  from  church  has 
made  the  devout  eaters  feel  some  little 
shafts  of  the  sharp  and  biting  north- wind. 
Rossignon  then  goes  on  merrily,  — some- 
times far  into  the  morning  hours;  but, 
nevertheless,  gradually  throats  grow  hoarse, 
stomachs  are  filled,  the  Yule-log  burns  out, 
and  at  last  the  hour  arrives  when  each  one, 
as  best  he  may,  regains  his  domicile  and 
his  bed,  and  puts  with  himself  between  the 
sheets  the  material  for  a good  sore-throat, 
or  a good  indigestion,  for  the  morrow. 
Previous  to  this,  care  has  been  taken  to 
place  in  the  slippers,  or  wooden  shoes  of 
the  children,  the  sugar-plums,  which  shall 
be  for  them,  on  their  waking,  the  welcome 
fruits  of  the  Christmas  log.” 

In  the  Glossary,  the  Suche , or  Yule-log, 
is  thus  defined  : — 


“This  is  a huge  log,  which  is  placed  on 
the  fire  on  Christmas  Eve,  and  which  in 
Burgundy  is  called,  on  this  account,  lai 
Suche  de  Noei.  Then  the  father  of  the 
family,  particularly  among  the  middle 
classes,  sings  solemnly  Christmas  carols 
with  his  wife  and  children,  the  smallest  of 
whom  he  sends  into  the  corner  to  pray  that 
the  Yule-log  may  bear  him  some  sugar- 
plums. Meanwhile,  little  parcels  of  them 
are  placed  under  each  end  of  the  log,  and 
the  children  come  and  pick  them  up,  be- 
lieving, in  good  faith,  that  the  great  log 
has  borne  them.” 

Page  141.  The  Song  of  Hiawatha. 
This  Indian  Edda  — if  I may  so  call  it — 
is  founded  on  a tradition  prevalent  among 
the  North  American  Indians,  of  a person- 
age of  miraculous  birth,  who  was  sent 
among  them  to  clear  their  rivers,  forests, 
and  fishing-grounds,  and  to  teach  them  the 
arts  of  peace.  He  was  known  among  dif- 
ferent tribes  by  the  several  names  of 
Miehabou,  Chiabo,  Manabozo,  Tarenya- 
wagon,  and  Hiawatha.  Mr.  Schoolcraft 
gives  an  account  of  him  in  his  Algic  Re- 
searches, Yol.  I.  p.  134  ; and  in  his  His- 
tory, Condition , and  Prospects  of  the  In- 
dian Tribes  of  the  United  States,  Part  III. 
p.  314,  may  be  found  the  Iroquois  form  of 
the  tradition,  derived  from  the  verbal  nar- 
rations of  an  Onondaga  chief. 

Into  this  old  tradition  I have  woven 
other  curious  Indian  legends,  drawn  chiefly 
from  the  various  and  valuable  writings  of 
Mr.  Schoolcraft,  to  whom  the  literary 
world  is  greatly  indebted  for  his  indefati- 
gable zeal  in  rescuing  from  oblivion  so 
much  of  the  legendary  lore  of  the  Indians. 

The  scene  of  the  poem  is  among  the 
Ojibways  on  the  southern  shore  of  Lake 
Superior,  in  the  region  between  the  Pic- 
tured Bocks  and  the  Grand  Sable. 

VOCABULARY. 

Adjidauhno,  the  red  squirrel. 

Ahdeeld,  the  reindeer. 

Ahkose'win,  fever. 

Ahmeeld,  the  beaver. 

Algon'quin,  Ojibway. 

Annemee'kee,  the  thunder. 

Apukhva,  a bulrush. 

Baim-wa'wa,  the  sound  of  the  thunder. 
Bemalflgut,  the  grapevine. 

Be'na,  the  pheasant. 

Big-Sea- Water,  Lake  Superior. 

Bukadabvin,  famine. 

Cheemaim',  a birch  canoe. 

Chetowaik1,  the  plover. 

Cliibiafbos,  a musician  ; friend  of  Hiaicatha ; 

ruler  in  the  Land  of  Spirits. 

Daliin'da,  the  bull-frog. 

Dush-kwo-ne'she,  or  Kwo-ne*she,  the  dragon-fly. 
Esa,  sham,e  upon  you. 

Ewa-yea*,  lullaby. 


NOTES. 


409 


Ghee'zis,  the  sun. 

Gitche  Gu'mee,  the  Big-Sea-Water , Lake  Su- 
perior. 

Gitche  Man'ito,  the  Great  Spirit,  the  Master  of  Life. 
Gushkewau',  the  darkness. 

Hiawa'tha,  the  Wise  Man,  the  Teacher ; son  of 
Mudjekeewis,  the  West- Wind,  and  Wenonah, 
daughter  of  Nokomis. 

Ia'goo,  a great  boaster  and  story-teller. 

Inin'ewug,  men,  or  pawns  in  the  Game  of  the  Bowl. 
Ishkoodah',  fire  ; a comet. 

Jee'bi,  a ghost,  a spirit. 

Joss'akeed,  a prophet. 

Kabibonok'ka,  the  North-Wind. 

Kagh,  the  hedge-hog. 

Ka'go,  do  not 
Kahgahgee',  the  raven. 

Kaw,  no. 

Kaween',  no  indeed. 

Kayoshk',  the  sea-gull. 

Kee'go,  a fish 

Keeway'din,  the  Northwest-Wind,  the  Home-wind. 
Kena'beek,  a serpent. 

Keneu',  the  great  war-eagle. 

Keno'zha,  the  pickerel. 

Ko'ko-ko'ho,  the  owl . 

Kuntasoo',  the  Game  of  Plum-stones. 

Kwa'sind,  the  Strong  Man. 

Kwo-ne'she,  or  Dush-kwo-ne'she,  the-  dragon- 
fly- 

Mahnahbe'zee,  the  swan. 

Mahng,  the  loon. 

Mahn-go-tay'see,  loon-hearted,  brave. 
Mahnomo'nee,  wild  rice. 

Ma'ma,  the  woodpecker. 

Maskeno'zha,  the  pike. 

Me'da,  a medicine-man. 

Meenah'ga,  the  blueberry. 

Megissog'won,  the  great  Pearl-Feather , a magi- 
cian, and  the'Manito  of  Wealth. 

Meshinau'wa,  a pipe-bearer. 

Minjekah'wun,  Hiawatha's  mittens. 

Minneha'ha,  Laughing  Water ; a water-fall  on 
a stream  running  into  the  Mississippi,  between 
Fort  Smelling  and  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony. 
Minneha'ha,  Laughing  Water;  wife  of  Hiawatha. 
Minne-wa'wa,  a pleasant  sound,  as  of  the  wind 
in  the  trees. 

Mishe-Mo'kwa,  the  Great  Bear. 

Mishe-Nali'ma,  the  Great  Sturgeon. 

Miskodeed',  the  Spring -Beauty,  the  Claytonia 
Virginica. 

Monda'min,  Indian  corn. 

Moon  of  Bright  Nights,  April. 

Moon  of  Leaves,  May. 

Moon  of  Strawberries,  June. 

Moon  of  the  Falling  Leaves,  September. 

Moon  of  Snow-Shoes,  November. 

Mudjekee'wis,  the  West-Wind ; father  of  Hia- 
vjatha. 

Mudwav-aush'ka,  sound  of  waves  on  a shore. 
Mushkoda'sa,  the  grouse. 

Nah'ma,  the  sturgeon. 

Nah'ma-wusk,  spearmint. 

Na'gow  Wudj'oo,  the  Sand  Dimes  of  Lake  Su- 
perior. 

Nee-ba-naw'baigs,  water  spirits. 

Nenemoo'sha,  sweetheart. 

Nepah'win,  sleep. 

Noko'mis,  a grandmother  ; mother  of  Wenonah. 
No'sa,  my  father. 

Nush'ka,  look ! look  ! 

Odah'min,  the  strawberry. 


Okahah'wis,  the  fresh-water  herring. 

Ome'me,  the  pigeon. 

Ona'gon,  a bowl. 

Onaway',  awake. 

Ope'chee,  the  robin. 

Osse'o,  Son  of  the  Evening  Star. 

Owais'sa,  the  bluebird. 

Oweenee',  wife  of  Osseo. 

Ozawa' beek,  a round  piece  of  brass  or  copper  in 
the  Game  of  the  Bowl. 

Pah-puk-kee'na,  the  grasshopper. 

Pau'guk,  death. 

Pau-Puk-Kee'wis,  the  handsome  Yenadizze,  the 
Storm  Fool. 

Pauwa'ting,  Saut  Sainte  Marie. 

Pe'boan,  Winter. 

Pem'ican,  meat  of  the  deer  or  buffalo  dried  and 
pounded. 

Pezhekee',  the  bison. 

Pishnekuh',  the  brant. 

Pone'mah,  hereafter. 

Pugasaing',  Game  of  the  Bowl. 

Puggawau'gun,  a war-club. 

Puk-Wudj'ies,  little  wild  men  of  the  woods ; pyg- 
mies. 

Sah-sah-je'wun,  rapids. 

Sali'wa,  the  perch. 

Segwun',  Spring. 

Slia'da,  the  pelican. 

Shahbo'min,  the  gooseberry. 

Shali-shah,  long  ago. 

Shaugoda'ya,  a coward. 

Shawgashee',  the  craw  fish. 

Shawonda'see,  the  South-  Wind. 

Shaw-shaw,  the  swallow. 

Shesh'ebwug,  ducks;  pieces  in  the  Game  of  the 
Bowl. 

Shin'gebis,  the  diver  or  grebe. 

Showain'  neme’shin,  pity  me. 

Shuh-shuh'gah,  the  blue  heron. 

Soan-ge-ta'ha,  strong-hearted. 

Snbbeka'she,  the  spider. 

Sugge'ma,  the  mosquito. 

To'tem,  family  coat-of-arms. 

Ugh,  yes. 

Ugudwasli',  the  sun-fish. 

Unktahee',  the  God  of  Water. 

Wabas'so,  the  rabbit;  the  North. 

Wabe'no,  a magician,  a juggler. 

Wabe'no-wusk,  yarrow. 

Wa'bun,  the  East-Wind. 

Wa'bun  An'nung,  the  Star  of  the  East,  the  Morn- 
ing k tar. 

Wahono'win,  a cry  of  lamentation. 
Wah-wah-tay'see,  the  fire-fly. 

Wam'pum,  beads  of  shell. 

Waubewj'on,  a white  skin  wrapper. 

Wa'wa,  the  wild-goose. 

Waw'beek,  a rock. 

Waw-be-wa'wa,  the  white  goose. 

Wawonais'sa,  the  whippoorwill. 
Way-inuk-kwa'na,  the  caterpillar. 

Wen'digoes,  giants. 

Weno'nah,  Hiawatha's  mother,  daughter  of  No- 
komis. 

Yenadiz'ze,  an  idler  and  gambler ; an  Indian 
dandy. 


Page  142.  In  the  Vale  of  Tawasentha. 

This  valley,  now  called  Norman’s  Kill, 
is  in  Albany  County,  New  York. 


410 


NOTES. 


Page  142.  On  the  Mountains  of  the 
Prairie. 

Mr.  Catlin,  in  his  Letters  and  Notes  on 
the  Manners,  Customs,  and  Condition  of 
the  North  American  Indians,  Vol.  II.  p. 
160,  gives  an  interesting  account  of  the 
Cdteau  des  Prairies , and  the  Red  Pipe- 
stone Quarry.  He  says  : — 

“Here  (according  to  their  traditions) 
happened  the  mysterious  birth  of  the  red 
pipe,  which  has  blown  its  fumes  of  peace 
and  war  to  the  remotest  corners  of  the 
continent ; which  has  visited  every  war- 
rior, and  passed  through  its  reddened  stem 
the  irrevocable  oath  of  war  and  desolation. 
And  here,  also,  the  peace-breathing  calu- 
met was  born,  and  fringed  with  the  eagle’s 
quills,  which  has  shed  its  thrilling  fumes 
over  the  land,  and  soothed  the  fury  of  the 
relentless  savage. 

“The  Great  Spirit  at  an  ancient  period 
here  called  the  Indian  nations  together, 
and,  standing  on  the  precipice  of  the  red 
pipe-stone  rock,  broke  from  its  wall  a 
piece,  and  made  a huge  pipe  by  turning  it 
in  his  hand,  which  he  smoked  over  them, 
and  to  the  North,  the  South,  the  East,  and 
the  West,  and  told  them  that  this  stone 
was  red, —that  it  was  their  flesh,  — that 
they  must  use  it  for  their  pipes  of  peace,  — 
that  it  belonged  to  them  all,  and  that  the 
war-club  and  scalping-knife  must  not  be 
raised  on  its  ground.  At  the  last  whiff  of 
his  pipe  his  head  went  into  a great  cloud, 
aud  the  whole  surface  of  the  rock  for  sev- 
eral miles  was  melted  and  glazed ; two 
great  ovens  were  opened  beneath,  and  two 
women  (guardian  spirits  of  the  place)  en- 
tered them  in  a blaze  of  fire  ; and  they  are 
heard  there  yet  (Tso-mec-cos-tee  and  Tso- 
me-cos-te- won-dee),  answering  to  the  invo- 
cations of  the  high-priests  or  medicine-men, 
who  consult  them  when  they  are  visitors 
to  this  sacred  place.” 

Page  144.  Hark  you,  Bear  ! you  are  a 
coward. 

This  anecdote  is  from  Heckewelder.  In 
his  account  of  the  Indian  Nations,  he  de- 
scribes an  Indian  hunter  as  addressing  a 
bear  in  nearly  these  words.  “ I was  pres- 
ent,” he  says,  “at  the  delivery  of  this  cu- 
rious invective  ; when  the  hunter  had  de- 
spatched the  bear,  I asked  him  how  he 
thought  that  poor  animal  could  under- 
stand what  he  said  to  it.  ‘0,’  said  he 
in  answer,  ‘the  bear  understood  me  very 
well ; did  you  not  observe  how  ashamed 
he  looked  while  I was  upbraiding  him?’” 
— Transactions  of  the  American  Philosoph- 
ical Society,  Vol.  I.  p.  240. 


Page  147.  Hush  ! the  Naked  Bear  will 
hear  thee  ! 

Heckewelder,  in  a letter  published  in 
the  Transactions  of  the  American  Philo- 
sophical Society,  Vol.  IV.  p.  260,  speaks 
of  this  tradition  as  prevalent  among  the 
Mohicans  and  Delawares. 

“Their  reports,”  he  says,  “run  thus*, 
that  among  all  animals  that  had  been  for- 
merly in  this  country,  this  was  the  most 
ferocious ; that  it  was  much  larger  than  the 
largest  of  the  common  bears,  and  remark- 
ably long-bodied ; all  over  (except  a spot 
of  hair  on  its  back  of  a white  color)  na- 
ked  

“ The  history  of  this  animal  used  to  be  a 
subject  of  conversation  among  the  Indians, 
especially  Avhen  in  the  woods  a hunting. 

I have  also  heard  them  say  to  their  chil- 
dren when  crying  : ‘ Hush  ! the  naked  bear 
will  hear  you,  be  upon  you,  and  devour 
you.’  ” 

Page  151.  Where  the  Falls  of  Minne - , 
haha,  etc. 

“The  scenery  about  Fort  Snelling  is  rich 
in  beauty.  The  Falls  of  St.  Anthony  are 
familiar  to  travellers,  and  to  readers  of  t 
Indian  sketches.  Between  the  fort  and 
these  falls  are  the  ‘ Little  Falls,’  forty  feet 
in  height,  on  a stream  that  empties  into 
the  Mississippi.  The  Indians  called  them  i 
Mine-hah-hah,  or  ‘laughing  waters.’” — ; 
Mrs.  Eastman’s  Dacntah,  or  Legends  of 
the  Sioux,  Introd.,  p.  ii. 

Page  165.  Sand  Hills  of  the  Nagow 
Wudjoo. 

A description  of  the  Grand  Sable,  or 
great  sand-dunes  of  Lake  Superior,  is  given  \ 
in  Foster  and  Whitney’s  Report  on  the  Ge-  I 
ology  of  the  Lake  Superior  Land  District,  | 

Part  II.  p.  131. 

“The  Grand  Sable  possesses  a scenic  in-  j 
terest  little  inferior  to  that  of  the  Pictured 
Rocks.  The  explorer  passes  abruptly  from  « 
a coast  of  consolidated  sand  to  one  of  loose 
materials;  and  although  in  the  one  case 
the  cliffs  are  less  precipitous,  yet  in  the 
other  they  attain  a higher  altitude.  He 
sees  before  him  a long  reach  of  coast,  re- 
sembling a vast  sand-bank,  more  than  three 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  height,  without  a 
trace  of  vegetation.  Ascending  to  the  top, 
rounded  hillocks  of  blown  sand  are  ob- 
served, with  occasional  clumps  of  trees, 
standing  out  like  oases  in  the  desert.” 

• 

Page  166.  Onaway  ! Awake,  beloved  ! 

The  original  of  this  song  may  be  found 
in  Littell’s  Living  Age,  Vol.  XXV.  p.  45. 


NOTES.  411 


Page  167.  On  the  Red  Swan  floating , 
flying. 

The  fanciful  tradition  of  the  Bed  Swan 
may  be  found  in  Schoolcraft’s  Algic  Re- 
searches, Yol.  II.  p.  9.  Three  brothers 
were  hunting  on  a wager  to  see  who  would 
bring  home  the  first  game. 

“ They  were  to  shoot  no  other  animal,” 
so  the  legend  says,  “ but  such  as  each  was 
in  the  habit  of  killing.  They  set  out  dif- 
ferent ways  : Odjibwa,  the  youngest,  had 
not  gone  far  before  he  saw  a bear,  an  ani- 
mal he  was  not  to  kill,  by  the  agreement. 
He  followed  him  close,  and  drove  an  arrow 
through  him,  which  brought  him  to  the 
ground.  Although  contrary  to  the  bet,  he 
immediately  commenced  skinning  him, 
when  suddenly  something  red  tinged  all 
the  air  around  him.  He  rubbed  his  eyes, 
thinking  he  was  perhaps  deceived;  but 
without  effect,  for  the  red  hue  continued. 
At  length  he  heard  a strange  noise  at  a 
distance.  It  first  appeared  like  a human 
voice,  but  after  following  the  sound  for 
some  distance,  he  reached  the  shores  of  a 
lake,  and  soon  saw  the  object  he  was  look- 
ing for.  At  a distance  out  in  the  lake  sat 
a most  beautiful  Red  Swan,  whose  plumage 
glittered  in  the  sun,  and  who  would  now 
and  then  make  the  same  noise  he  had  heard. 
He  was  within  long  bow-shot,  and,  pulling 
the  arrow  from  the  bowstring  up  to  his  ear, 
took  deliberate  aim  and  shot.  The  arrow 
took  no  effect;  and  he  shot  and  shot  again 
till  his  quiver  was  empty.  Still  the  swan 
remained,  moving  round  and  round, 
stretching  _its  long  neck  and  dipping  its 
bill  into  the  water,  as  if  heedless  of  the 
arrows  shot  at  it.  Odjibwa  ran  home,  and 
got  all  his  own  and  his  brother’s  arrows, 
and  shot  them  all  away.  He  then  stood 
and  gazed  at  the  beautiful  bird.  While 
standing,  he  remembered  his  brother’s  say- 
ing that  in  their  deceased  father’s  medi- 
cine-sack were  three  magic  arrows.  Off  he 
started,  his  anxiety  to  kill  the  swan  over- 
coming all  scruples.  At  any  other  time, 
he  would  have  deemed  it  sacrilege  to  open 
his  father’s  medicine-sack ; but  now  he 
hastily  seized  the  three  arrows  and  ran 
back,  leaving  the  other  contents  of  the 
sack  scattered  over  the  lodge.  The  swan 
was  still  there.  He  shot  the  first  arrow  | 
with  great  precision,  and  came  very  near 
to  it.  The  second  came  still  closer;  as  he 
took  the  last  arrow,  he  felt  his  arm  firmer, 
and,  drawing  it  up  with  vigor,  saw  it  pass 
through  the  neck  of  the  swan  a little  above 
the  breast.  Still  it  did  not  prevent  the 
bird  from  flying  off,  which  it  did,  however, 
at  first  slowly,  flapping  its  wings  and  ris- 
ing gradually  into  the  air,  and  then  flying 


off  toward  the  sinking  of  the  sun.”  — pp. 
10-12. 

Page  170.  When  I think  of  my  beloved. 

The  original  of  this  song  may  be  found 
in  Oneota , p.  15. 

Page  170.  Sing  the  mysteries  of  Mon- 
damin. 

The  Indians  hold  the  maize,  or  Indian 
corn,  in  great  veneration.  “ They  esteem 
it  so  important  and  divine  a grain,”  says 
Schoolcraft,  “that  their  story-tellers  in- 
vented various  tales,  in  which  this  idea  is 
symbolized  under  the  form  of  a special  gift 
from  the  Great  Spirit.  The  Odjibwa-Al- 
gonquins,  who  call  it  Mon-da-min,  that  is, 
the  Spirit’s  grain  or  berry,  have  a pretty 
story  of  this  kind,  in  which  the  stalk  in 
full  tassel  is-  represented  as  descending 
from  the  sky,  under  the  guise  of  a hand- 
some youth,  in  answer  to  the  prayers  of  a 
young  man  at  his  fast  of  virility,  or 
coming  to  manhood. 

“It  is  well  known  that  corn-planting 
and  corn-gathering,  at  least  among  all  the 
still  uncolonized  tribes,  are  left  entirely  to 
the  females  and  children,  and  a few  super- 
annuated old  men.  It  is  not  generally 
known,  perhaps,  that  this  labor  is  not 
compulsory,  and  that  it  is  assumed  by  the 
females  as  a just  equivalent,  in  their  view, 
for  the  onerous  and  continuous  labor  of 
the  other  sex,  in  providing  meats,  and 
skins  for  clothing,  by  the  chase,  and  in 
defending  their  villages  against  their  ene- 
mies, and  keeping  intruders  off  their  terri- 
tories. A good  Indian  housewife  deems 
this  a part  of  her  prerogative,  and  prides 
herself  to  have  a store  of  corn  to  exercise 
her  hospitality,  or  duly  honor  her  hus- 
band’s hospitality,  in  the  entertainment  of 
the  lodge  guests.”  — Oneota , p.  82. 

Page  171.  Thus  the  fields  shall  be  more 
fruitful. 

“A  singular  proof  of  this  belief,  in  both 
sexes,  of  the  mysterious  influence  of  the 
steps  of  a woman  on  the  vegetable  and  in- 
sect creation,  is  found  in  an  ancient  cus- 
tom, which  was  related  to  me,  respecting 
corn -planting.  It  was  the  practice  of  the 
hunter’s  wife,  when  the  field  of  corn  had 
been  planted,  to  choose  the  first  dark  or 
overclouded  evening  to  perform  a secret 
circuit,  sans  habillement , around  the  field. 
For  this  purpose  she  slipped  out  of  the 
lodge  in  the  evening,  unobserved,  to  some 
obscure  nook,  where  she  completely  dis- 
robed. Then,  taking  her  matchecota,  or 
principal  garment,  in  one  hand,  she  dragged 
it  around  the  field.  This  was  thought  to 
insure  a prolific  crop,  and  to  prevent  the 


412 


NOTES. 


assaults  of  insects  and  worms  upon  the 
grain.  It  was  supposed  they  could  not 
creep  over  the  charmed  line.”  — Oneota , p. 
83. 

Page  171.  With  his  prisoner -string  he 
bound  him. 

“These  cords/’  says  Mr.  Tanner,  “are 
made  of  the  hark  of  the  elm-tree,  by  boil- 
ing and  then  immersing  it  in  cold  water. 
....  The  leader  of  a war  party  com- 
monly carries  several  fastened  about  his 
waist,  and  if,  in  the  course  of  the  tight, 
any  one  of  his  young  men  takes  a prisoner, 
it  is  his  duty  to  bring  him  immediately  to 
the  chief,  to  be  tied,  and  the  latter  is  're- 
sponsible for  his  safe  keeping.  ” — Narra- 
tive of  Captivity  and  Adventures , p.  412. 

Page  172. 

Wagemin , the  thief  of  cornfields, 

Paimosaid , who  steals  the  moAze-ear. 

“ If  one  of  the  young  female  huskers 
finds  a red  ear  of  corn,  it  is  typical  of  a 
brave  admirer,  and  is  regarded  as  a fitting 
present  to  some  young  warrior.  But  if  the 
ear  be  crooked,  and  tapering  to  a point,  no 
matter  what  color,  the  whole  circle  is  set  in 
a roar,  and  wx-ge-min  is  the  word  shouted 
aloud.  It  is  the  symbol  of  a thief  in  the 
cornfield.  It  is  considered  as  the  image  of 
an  old  man  stooping  as  he  enters  the  lot. 
Had  the  chisel  of  Praxiteles  been  employed 
to  produce  this  image,  it  could  not  more 
vividly  bring  to  the  minds  of  the  merry 
group  the  idea  of  a pilferer  of  their  favorite 
mondam  in 

“The  literal  meaning  of  the  term  is,  a 
mass,  or  crooked  ear  of  grain;  but  the  ear 
of  corn  so  called  is  a conventional  type  of  a 
little  old  man  pilfering  ears  of  corn  in  a 
cornfield.  It  is  in  this  manner  that  a sin- 
gle word  or  term,  in  these  curious  lan- 
guages, becomes  the  fruitful  parent  of 
many  ideas.  And  we  can  thus  perceive 
why  it  is  that  the  word  wagemin  is  alone 
competent  to  excite  merriment  in  the  husk- 
ing circle. 

“This  term  is  taken  as  the  basis  of  the 
cereal  chorus,  or  corn  song,  as  sung  by  the 
Northern  Algonquin  tribes.  It  is  coupled 
with  the  phrase  Paimosaid,  — a permuta- 
tive  form  of  the  Indian  substantive,  made 
from  the  verb  pim-o-sa , to  walk.  Its  lit- 
eral meaning  is,  he  who  walks , or  the 
walker  ; but  the  ideas  conveyed  by  it  are, 
he  who  walks  by  night  to  pilfer  corn.  It 
offers,  therefore,  a kind  of  parallelism  in 
expression  to  the  preceding  term.”  — One- 
ota, p.  254. 

Page  177.  Pugasaing,  with  thirteen 
pieces. 

This  Game  of  the  Bowl  is  the  principal 


game  of  hazard  among  the  Northern  tribes 
of  Indians.  Mr.  Schoolcraft  gives  a par- 
ticular account  of  it  in  Oneota,  p.  85. 
“This  game,”  he  says,  “is  very  fascinat- 
ing to  some  portions  of  the  Indians.  They 
stake  at  it  their  ornaments,  weapons, 
clothing,  canoes,  horses,  everything  in  fact 
they  possess  ; and  have  been  known,  it  is 
said,  to  set  up  their  wives  and  children, 
and  even  to  forfeit  their  own  liberty.  Of 
such  desperate  stakes  I have  seen  no  ex- 
amples, nor  do  I think  the  game  itself  in 
common  use.  It  is  rather  confined  to  cer- 
tain persons,  who  hold  the  relative  rank  of 
gamblers  in  Indian  society,  — men  who  are 
not  noted  as  hunters  or  warriors,  or  steady 
providers  for  their  families.  Among  these 
are  persons  who  bear  the  term  of  Iena- 
dizze-wug,  that  is,  wanderers  about  the 
country,  braggadocios,  or  fops.  It  can 
hardly  be  classed  with  the  popular  games 
of  amusement,  by  which  skill  and  dexter- 
ity are  acquired.  I have  generally  found 
the  chiefs  and  graver  men  of  the  tribes, 
who  encouraged  the  young  men  to  play 
ball,  and  are  sure  to  be  present  at  the  cus- 
tomary sports,  to  witness,  and  sanction, 
and  applaud  them,  speak  lightly  and  dis- 
paragingly of  this  game  of  hazard.  Yet  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  some  of  the  chiefs, 
distinguished  in  war  and  the  chase,  at  the 
West,  can  be  referred  to  as  lending  their 
example  to  its  fascinating  power.” 

See  also  his  History,  Condition,  and 
Prospects  of  the  Indian  Tribes,  Part  II. 
p.  72. 

Page  181.  To  the  Pictured  Rocks  of 
sandstone. 

The  reader  will  find  a long  description 
of  the  Pictured  Rocks  in  Foster  and  Whit- 
ney’s Report  on  the  Geology  of  the  Lake 
Superior  Land  District,  Part  II.  p.  124. 
From  this  I make  the  following  extract : — 

“ The  Pictured  Rocks  may  be  described, 
in  general  terms,  as  a series  of  sandstone 
bluffs  extending  along  the  shore  of  Lake 
Superior  for  about  five  miles,  and  rising, 
in  most  places,  vertically  from  the  water, 
without  any  beach  at  the  base,  to  a height 
varying  from  fifty  to  nearly  two  hundred 
feet.  Were  they  simply  a line  of  cliffs, 
they  might  not,  so  far  as  relates  to  height 
or  extent,  be  worthy  of  a rank  among  great 
natural  curiosities,  although  such  an  as- 
semblage of  rocky  strata,  washed  by  the 
waves  of  the  great  lake,  would  not,  under 
any  circumstances,  be  destitute  of  gran- 
deur. To  the  voyager,  coasting  along  their 
f base  in  his  frail  canoe,  they  would,  at  all 
times,  be  an  object  of  dread  ; the  recoil 
i of  the  surf,  the  rock-bound  coast,  afford- 
ing, for  miles,  no  place  of  refuge, — the 


NOTES. 


413 


lowering  sky,  the  rising  wind,  — all  these 
would  excite  his  apprehension,  and  induce 
him  to  ply  a vigorous  oar  until  the  dreaded 
wall  was  passed.  But  in  the  Pictured 
Rocks  there  are  two  features  which  com- 
municate to  the  scenery  a wonderful  and 
almost  unique  character.  These  are,  first, 
the  curious  manner  in  which  the  cliffs  have 
been  excavated  and  worn  away  by  the  ac- 
tion of  the  lake,  which,  for  centuries,  has 
dashed  an  ocean-like  surf  against  their 
base;  and,  second,  the  equally  curious 
manner  in  which  large  portions  of  the  sur- 
face have  been  colored  by  bands  of  bril- 
liant hues. 

“ It  is  from  the  latter  circumstance  that 
the  name,  by  which  these  cliffs  are  known 
to  the  American  traveller,  is  derived  ; while 
that  applied  to  them  by  the  French  voya- 
geurs  ( ‘ Les  Portails  ’ ) is  derived  from  the 
former,  and  by  far  the  most  striking  pecu- 
liarity. 

“The  term  Pictured  Rocks  has  been  in 
use  for  a great  length  of  time;  but  when  it 
was  first  applied,  we  have  been  unable  to 
discover.  It  would  seem  that  the  first  trav- 
ellers were  more  impressed  with  the  novel 
and  striking  distribution  of  colors  on  the 
surface  than  with  the  astonishing  variety 
of  form  into  which  the  cliffs  themselves 
have  been  worn 

“Our  voyageurs  had  many  legends  to 
relate  of  the  pranks  of  the  Menni-bojou  in 
these  caverns,  and,  in  answer  to  our  inqui- 
ries, seemed  disposed  to  fabricate  stories, 
without  end,  of  the  achievements  of  this 
Indian  deity.” 

Page  189.  Toward  the  sun  his  hands 
were  lifted. 

In  this  manner,  and  with  such  saluta- 
tions, was  Father  Marquette  received  by 
the  Illinois.  See  his  Voyages  et  Decou- 
•vertes,  Section  V. 

Page  212. 

That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 
A ladder. 

The  words  of  St.  Augustine  are,  — “De 
vitas  nostris  scalam  nobis  facimus,  si  vitia 
ipsa  calcamus.” 

Sermon  III.  De  Ascensione. 

Page  212.  The  Phantom  Ship. 

A detailed  account  of  this  “apparition 
Df  a Ship  in  the  Air  ” is  given  by  Cotton 
Mather  in  his  Magnolia  Christi , Book  I. 


Ch.  VI.  It  is  contained  in  a letter  from 
the  Rev.  James  Pierpont,  Pastor  of  New 
Haven.  To  this  account  Mather  adds 
these  words  : — 

“ Reader,  there  being  yet  living  so  many 
credible  gentlemen  that  were  eyewitnesses 
of  this  wonderful  thing,  I venture  to  pub- 
lish it  for  a thing  as  undoubted  as  ’t  is 
wonderful.” 

Page  215.  And  the  Emperor  but  a Ma- 
cho. 

Macho , in  Spanish,  signifies  a mule. 
Golondrina  is  the  feminine  form  of  Golon- 
drino , a swallow,  and  also  a cant  name  for 
a deserter. 

Page  217.  Oliver  Basselin. 

Oliver  Basselin,  the  “ Per e joyeux  du 
Vaudeville ,”  flourished  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  and  gave  to  his  convivial  songs 
the  name  of  his  native  valleys,  in  which  he 
sang  them,  Vaux-de-Vire.  This  name  was 
afterwards  corrupted  into  the  modern  Vau- 
deville. 

Page  218.  Victor  Galbraith. 

This  poem  is  founded  on  fact.  Victor 
Galbraith  was  a bugler  in  a company  of 
volunteer  cavalry,  and  was  shot  in  Mexico 
for  some  breach  of  discipline.  It  is  a com- 
mon superstition  among  soldiers,  that  no 
balls  will  kill  them  unless  their  names  are 
written  on  them.  The  old  proverb  says, 
“Every  bullet  has  its  billet.” 

Page  219.  I remember  the  sea-fight  far 
away. 

This  was  the  engagement  between  the 
Enterprise  and  Boxer,  off  the  harbor  of 
Portland,  in  which  both  captains  were 
slain.  They  were  buried  side  by  side,  in 
the  cemetery  on  Mountjoy. 

Page  222.  Santa  Filomena. 

“At  Pisa  the  church  of  San  Francisco 
contains  a chapel  dedicated  lately  to  Santa 
Filomena;  over  the  altar  is  a picture,  by 
Sabatelli,  representing  the  Saint  as  a beau- 
tiful, nymph-like  figure,  floating  down 
from  heaven,  attended  by  two  angels  bear- 
ing the  lily,  palm,  and  javelin,  and  be- 
neath, in  the  foreground,  the  sick  and 
maimed,  who  are  healed  by  her  interces- 
sion.”— Mrs.  Jameson,  Sacred  and  Le- 
gendary Art , II.  298. 


INDEX 


[The  titles  in  small  capital  letters  are  those  of  the  principal  divisions  of  the  work,  those  in 
lower-case  are  single  poems,  or  the  sub-divisions  of  long  poems.] 


Aftermath,  231. 

Afternoon  in  February,  87. 

Allah,  392. 

Amalfi,  361. 

Angel  and  the  Child,  The,  339. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  92. 

April  Day,  An,  6. 

V X Arrow  and.  the  Song,  The,  90. 

Artist,  The,  392. 

X Arsenal  at  Springfield,  The,  78. 

Autumn,  7,  91. 

Azrael,  293. 

Ballad  of  Carmilhan,  The,  280. 

Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet,  A,  376. 

Ballads  and  other  Poems,  25. 

Baron  of  St.  Castine,  The,  288. 

Barreges,  391. 

Beatrice,  19. 

^Beleaguered  City,  The,  5. 

? Belfry  of  Bruges  and  other  Poems,  The,  76. 
Belfry  of  Bruges,  The,  77 
Belisarius,  362. 

Bell  of  Atri,  The,  273. 

Bells  of  Lynn,  The,  320. 

Beware,  23. 

Bird  and  the  Ship,  The,  22. 

Birds  of  Killingworth,  The,  268. 

Birds  of  Passage,  131. 

Birds  of  Passage. 

Flight  the  First,  211. 

Flight  the  Second,  225. 

Flight  the  Third,  228. 

Flight  the  Fourth,  358. 

Flight  the  Fifth,  372. 

Bishop  Sigurd  at  Sal  ten  Fiord,  254. 

Black  Knight,  The,  24. 

Blessing  the  Cornfields,  170. 

Blind  Bartimeus,  38. 

Blind  Girl  of  Castel-Cuille,  135. 

Book  of  Sonnets,  A,  364. 

Part  Second,  380. 

Boston,  383.  ' 

Boy  and  the  Brook,  The,  337. 

><  Bridge,  The,  85. 

Bridge  of  Cloud,  The,  318. 

Broken  Oar,  The,  385. 

Brook,  The,  17. 

Brook  and  the  Wave,  The,  230. 

Builders,  The,  130. 

Building  of  the  Long  Serpent,  The,  256. 


Building  of  the  Ship,  The,  122. 

\ Burial  of  the  Minnisink,  The,  10. 

By  the  Fireside,  129. 

By  the  Seaside,  122. 

Cadenabbia,  359. 

Canzone,  394. 

Carillon,  76. 

Castle  by  the  Sea,  The,  23. 

Castle-Builder,  The,  229. 

Castles  in  Spain,  373. 

Catawba  Wine,  221. 

Celestial  Pilot,  The,  17. 

Challenge,  The,  229. 

Challenge  of  Thor,  The,  246. 

Changed,  229. 

Charlemagne,  294. 

Charles  Sumner,  358. 

Chaucer,  365. 

Child  Asleep,  The,  20. 

Children,  224. 

Children  of  the  Lord’s  Supper,  The,  29. 
Children’s  Flour,  The,  225. 

Christmas  Bells,  319. 

Christmas  Carol,  A,  140. 

C'hrysaor,  126. 

Cobbler  of  Hagenau,  The,  277. 

Consolation,  338. 

Coplas  de  Manrique,  11. 

Courtship  of  Miles  Standish,  The,  191. 
Crew  of  the  Long  Serpent,  The,  257. 
Cumberland,  The,  226. 

X|  Curfew,  94. 

X Dante,  91,  393. 

Day  of  Sunshine,  227. 

><  Day  is  done,  The,  87. 

Daybreak,  223. 

Daylight  and  Moonlight,  216. 

Dead,  The,  22. 

Death  of  Kwasind,  The,  182. 

Dedication  to  the  Seaside  and  the  Fireside,  12L 
Delia,  380. 

Descent  of  the  Muses,  The,  381. 

•Discoverer  of  the  North  Cape,  The,  222. 

Divina  Commedia,  322. 

Drinking  Song,  89. 

Dutch  Picture,  A,  373. 

Earlier  Poems,  6. 

Einar  Tamberskelver,  261. 


416 


INDEX. 


Elected  Knight,  The,  29. 

Eliot’s  Oak,  3S1. 

Elizabeth,  299. 

Emma  and  Eginliard,  295. 

Emperor’s  Bird's- Nest,  The,  215. 
Emperor’s  Glove,  The,  376. 
En'celadus,  226. 
y<  Endymion,  36. 

Epimetheus,  231. 

Evangeline,  95. 

Evening  Star,  The,  91. 

> ; Excelsior,  40. 

Falcon  of  Ser  Federigo,  237. 

Famine,  The,  185. 

Fata  Morgana,  228. 

Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz,  224. 
Finales  to  Wayside  lun,  271,  291,  316. 
Fire,  392. 

Fire  of  Drift-Wood,  The,  129. 
Flower-de-Luce,  317. 
Flower-de-Liice,  317. 

Flowers,  4. 

**  Footsteps  of  Angels,  4. 

Forsaken,  391. 

Four  Princesses  at  Wilna,  384. 

Four  Winds,  The,  144. 

From  the  .Spanish  Cancioneros,  230. 
Fugitive,  The,  336. 


Galaxy,  The,  366. 

Gaspar  Becerra,  132. 

Ghosts,  The,  183. 

Giotto’s  Tower,  321. 

Gleam  of  Sunshine,  The,  78. 

Goblet  of  Life,  The,  39. 

God’s-Acre,  37. 

Golden  Milestone,  The,  220. 

Good  Part,  The,  42. 

Good  Shepherd,  The,  16. 

Grave,  The,  20. 

Gudrun,  252. 

Handful  ok  Translations,  A,  336. 
Hanging  of  the  Crane,  The,  352. 
Happiest  Land,  The,  21. 

Haroun  al  Rascliid,  378. 

Harvest  Moon,  The,  3S2. 

Haunted  Chamber,  The,  228. 

Haunted  Houses,  214. 

Hawthorne,  319. 

Hemlock-Tree,  The,  92. 

Herons  of  Elmwood,  The,  372. 
Hiawatha  and  M udjekeewis,  149. 
Hiawatha  and  the  Pearl- Feather,  159. 
Hiawatha’s  Childhood,  146. 

Hiawatha’s  Departure,  189. 

Hiawatha’s  Fasting,  151. 

Hiawatha’s  Fishing,  157. 

Hiawatha’s  Friends,  154. 

Hiawatha’s  Lamentation,  174. 
Hiawatha’s  Sailing,  156. 

Hiawatha’s  Wedding  Feast,  164. 
Hiawatha’s  Wooing,  162. 

Holidays,  385. 

Hunting  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis,  The,  178. 
Hymn,  135. 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns,  8. 

Hymn  to  the  Night,  2. 

11  Ponte  Vecchio  di  Firenze,  368. 
Image  of  God,  The,  17. 

In  the  Churchyard  at  Cambridge,  214. 
In  the  Churchyard  at  Tarrytown,  380. 


Interludes  to  the  Wayside  Inn,  237,  241,243, 
246,  263,  267,  275,  277v  279,  283,  2S6,  287,  293, 
295,  298,  304,  309,  311,  313. 

Introduction  to  the  Song  of  Hiawatha,  141. 
Iron  Beard,  251. 

It  is  not  always  May,  37. 

Jewish  Cemetery  at  Newport,  216. 

John  Alden,  19S. 

J udas  Maccabeus,  324. 


Kambalu,  275. 

Keats,  366. 

Keramos,  368. 

Killed  at  the  Ford,  321. 

King  Christian,  21. 

King  Olaf  and  Earl  Sigvald,  260. 

King  Olaf  s Christmas,  255. 

King  Olaf’s  Deatli-Drink,  262. 

King  Olaf’s  Return,  247. 

King  Olaf’s  War-Horns,  260. 

King  Robert  of  Sicily,  243. 

King  Svend  of  the  Forked  Beard,  259. 
King  Trisanku,  378. 

King  Witlaf’s  Drinking-Horn,  132. 


y 


Ladder  of  St.  Augustine,  The,  212. 
Lady  Wentworth,  283. 

Landlord’s  Tales,  The,  235,  314. 

Leap  of  Roushan  Beg,  The,  377. 
Legend  Beautiful,  The,  286. 

Legend  of  Rabbi  Ben  Levi,  The,  242. 
Legend  of  the  Crossbill,  The,  93. 
L’Envoi,  25. 

Light  of  Stars,  The,  3. 

Lighthouse,  The,  128. 

Little  Bird  in  the  Air,  The,  258. 

Love  and  Friendship,  193. 

Lover’s  Errand,  The,  195. 

Luck  of  Edenhall,  The,  28. 


/Maidenhood,  39. 

March  of  Miles  Standisli,  The,  205. 
Masque  of  Pandora,  The,  341. 
Meeting,  The,  229. 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year,  5. 
Miles  Standish,  191. 

Milton,  365. 

Miscellaneous,  36,  78. 

Monk  of  Casal-Maggiore,  The,  304. 
Monte  Cassino,  360. 

Moods,  384. 

Morituri  Salutamus,  354. 

Mother’s  Ghost,  The,  312. 

Musician’s  Tales,  The,  246,  280,  312. 
My  Lost  Youth,  219. 


Nameless  Grave,  A,  367. 

Native  Land,  The,  17. 

Nature,  380. 

Noel,  323. 

Norman  Baron,  The,  SO. 

Nun  of  Nidaros,  The,  262. 
/Nuremberg,  79. 

Occn Ration  of  Orion,  The,  84. 

Old  Age.  393. 

Old  Bridge  at  Florence,  The,  368. 

- Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs,  The,  89. 
Oliver  Basselin,  217. 

On  the  Terrace  of  the  Aigalades,  390. 
Open  Window,  The,  132. 

Ovid  in  Exile,  387. 


3 


INDEX. 


417 


Palingenesis,  317. 

Parker  Cleaveland,  381.  X 

Pau-Puk-Keewis,  176. 

Paul  Revere’s  Ride,  235. 

Peace-Pipe,  The,  142. 

Pegasus  in  Pound,  133. 

Phantom  Ship,  The,  212. 

Picture-Writing,  172. 

Poems  on  Slavery,  41. 

Poetic  Aphorisms,  93. 

Poet’s  Tales,  The,  268,  283,  294. 

Poets,  The,  381. 

Preludes  to  Tales  of  a Wayside  Inn,  232,  272, 
292. 

Prelude  to  Voices  of  the  Night,  1. 

Priscilla,  203. 

Prometheus,  211. 

YPsalm  of  Life,  A,  2. 

Quadroon  Girl,  The,  43. 

Queen  Sigrid  the  Haughty,  248. 

Queen  Thyri  and  the  Angelica  Stalks,  258. 

Rain  in  Summer,  81. 

X Rainy  Day,  The,  37. 

Raud  the  Strong,  254. 

Reaper  and  the  Flowers,  The,  3. 

Remorse,  340. 

Resignation,  129. 

Revenge  of  Rain-in-the-Face,  The,  375. 

Rhyme  of  Sir  Christopher,  The,  314. 

Ropewalk,  The,  220. 

Saga  of  King  Olaf,  The,  246. 

Sailing  of  the  Mayflower.  200. 

St.  John’s,  Cambridge,  384. 

Sand  of  the  Desert  in  an  Hour-Glass,  130. 
Sandalphon,  225. 

Santa  Filomena,  222. 

Santa  Teresa’s  Book-Mark,  340. 

Scanderbeg,  309. 

Sea  hath  its  Pearls,  The,  93. 

Seaside  and  the  Fireside,  The,  121. 

V Seaweed , 86. 

Secret  of  the  Sea,  The,  126. 

Sermon  of  St.  Francis,  The,  362. 

Sip-EN  Sonnets,  392. 

Shadow,  A,  367. 

Shakespeare,  365. 

Sicilian  Tales,  The,  243,  273,  304. 

Siege  of  Kazan,  The,  337. 

Singers,  The,  134. 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  127. 

^Skeleton  in  Armor,  The,  25. 

Skerry  of  Shrieks,  The,  249. 

Slave  in  the  Dismal  Swamp,  The,  42. 

Slave  Singing  at  Midnight,  The,  42. 

* Slave’s  Dream,  The,  41. 

Sleep,  367. 

Snow-Flakes,  227. 

Something  left  Undone,  227. 

Son  of  the  Evening  Star,  The,  167. 

Song,  379. 

Song  ok  Hiawatha,  The,  141. 

Song  of  the  Bell,  The,  23. 

Song  of  the  Silent  Land,  24. 

Songo  River,  363. 

Songs,  88. 

Sonnet,  134. 

Sonnets,  91. 

Sonnets,  A Book  of,  364. 

Sound  of  the  Sea,  The,  366. 


Spanish  Jew’s  Tales,  The,  242,  275,  293,  309. 
Spanish  Student,  The,  44. 

Spinning-Wheel,  The,  207. 

' Spirit  of  Poetry,  The,  9. 

Spring,  19. 

Statue  over  the  Cathedral  Door,  The,  93. 
Student’s  Tales,  The,  237,  277,  288,  295. 
Summer  Day  by  the  Sea,  A,  366. 

Sunrise  on  the  Hills,  8. 

Suspiria,  135. 

Tales  of  a Waystde  Inn. 

Part  First,  232. 

Part  Second,  272. 

Part  Third,  292. 

Tegn^r’s  Drapa,  133. 

Terrestrial  Paradise,  The,  18. 

Thangbrand  the  Priest,  253. 

Theologian’s  Tales,  The,  264,  286,  299. 

Thora  of  Rimol,  248. 

Three  Friends  of  Mine,  364. 

Three  Kings,  The,  378. 

Three  Silences  of  Molinos,  The,  382. 

Tides,  The,  367. 

To  a Child,  82. 

To  an  Old  Danish  Song-Book,  88. 

To  Cardinal  Richelieu,  339. 

To  Italy,  339. 

To  my  Brooklet,  391. 

To  the  Driving  Cloud,  85. 

To  the  River  Charles,  38. 

To  the  River  Rhone,  382. 

To  the  River  Yvette,  376. 

To  the  Stork.  338. 

To  William  E.  Channing,  41. 

To-morrow,  16,  321. 

To  Vittoria  Colonna,  393. 

Torquemada,  264. 

Translations,  11,  92,  386. 

Travels  by  the  Fireside,  359. 

Twilight,  127. 

Two  Angels,  The,  215. 

Two  Locks  of  Hair,  The,  37. 

Two  Rivers,  The,  383. 

Victor  Galbraith,  218. 

Village  Blacksmith,  The,  36. 

Virgil’s  First  Eclogue,  386. 

Vittoria  Colonna,  374. 

Voices  of  the  Night,  1. 

Vox  Populi,  229. 

Walter  von  der  Vogelweid,  88. 

Wanderer’s  Night-Songs,  339. 

Wapentake,  385. 

Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports,  The,  213. 
Warning,  The,  44. 

Wave,  The,  22. 

Wayside  Inn,  The,  232. 

Weariness,  228. 

Wedding-Day,  The,  209. 

White  Czar,  The,  379. 

White  Man’s  Foot,  The,  186. 

Whither,  22. 

Wind  over  the  Chimney,  The,  320. 

Witnesses,  The,  43. 

Woods  in  Winter,  7. 

Woodstock  Park,  384. 

Wrafth  in  the  Mist,  A,  378. 

Wraith  of  Odin,  The,  250. 

Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  The,  27. 

Youth  and  Age,  392. 


